


The Egg of Time

by AeAyem



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: Gen, Headcanon, History, House Sotha, Literal things interpreted metaphorically, Metaphor Interpreted Literally, Mournhold, The 36 Lessons of Vivec, cw: gore, dubcon, teslore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-19 04:22:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 134,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4732664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeAyem/pseuds/AeAyem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Almalexia gains a throne; Sotha Sil loses a House; an egg is hatched and becomes Vivec.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

_1E397, Rain's Hand._

_He was born in the ash among the Velothi, anon Chimer, before the war with the northern men._

* * *

 Ash fell like snow over Mournhold the day Almalexia’s mother died.

Outside the window of the healer’s room flecks of grey fell silently past the glass. Almalexia followed their descent with her eyes, while nearby her mother’s breaths turned from shallow, to laboured, to finally not there at all. She didn’t tear her gaze away from the window until the door creaked open, and a guard took her gently by the shoulders and lead her out of the room.

Sotha Sil was waiting for her outside, but Almalexia hardly noticed him as he took her into a soft embrace and murmured “I’m sorry” against her shoulder. Evidently word was already spreading that the Queen was dead; the hallway was slowly filling with silent Chimer in ceremonial robes, mourners and officials and priests alike, all grimly silent. In the long weeks since the Queen had fallen ill the entire nation had watched with breathless anticipation; now that she was finally gone, they were impatient to get her funeral over with so that grander schemes could be set in motion. A Queen’s death always brought opportunity, after all, and the Velothi loved the schemer Mephala to a fault.

Almalexia allowed her childhood friend to steer her away from the crowd and out into the courtyard, where a funeral procession was already assembling. “You shouldn’t have come here.” she muttered to him as they took their place near the front of the mourners. “Jarl Chemua has been scheming about this moment for months. Things may become dangerous.”

“House Sotha is the largest banner-house of Great House Telvanni.” Sotha Sil replied simply. “It was my duty to come. You should understand that. After all, we’re both heirs.”

Almalexia laughed, though it was utterly without humor. “You don’t have a bunch of Northmen waiting to deny you your place at the head of your house, Sil. Gods, I’m so… I’m scared. I’m truly scared.”

“They’ve done nothing for a century. It will be okay.”

“Yes, but Mother was alive then. She could always rein them back. What’s to happen now that she’s gone? The war is making Chemua desperate. I’ve heard him whisper of slavery, of enlistment. Each day I hear him and his Steward whispering of all the sordid things they could do.”

“Ayem…”  

Their conversation was interrupted by the slow creak of the castle doors. Three priestesses walked out of the castle, each clad in the robes of the three Good Daedra, and shortly behind them followed the freshly animated corpse of Almalexia’s mother. She’d been dressed in the appropriate ceremonial garb before being resurrected, and her skin adorned with makeup to hide the pallor of her skin, though now she walked with a tell-tale stiffness and her head sagged to the side. Sloppy conjurers, Almalexia though dimly.

Sotha Sil tugged on her sleeve and she automatically began to walk. The procession, lead by the corpse and the priestesses,  began their solemn crawl out onto the street, where tearful citizens had assembled to bid their benevolent ruler farewell. Nowhere else would an entire town be permitted to attend a funeral but in Mournhold; though the Queen was Indoril by birth and tradition, upon taking the throne they swore to rule independently of any great House, with their only loyalty the well-being of the city. This unusual custom had allowed Mournhold to survive and prosper throughout centuries of inter-House warfare, and meant that citizens were now permitted to attend the last walk of their Queen regardless of clan or kin.

Although as they made their sluggish way through the streets, Almalexia felt that the crowd’s emotion was less like sadness and more like fear.

The ash-storm had thickened, causing occasional muffled coughs to pierce the otherwise reverent silence. As they went on, particularly devout citizens would attach themselves to the end of the funerary procession, so that the length slowly grew as they crept from one district to the next. Above the heads of the living the ghosts of the dead flitted like bats. The ancestors of the Velothi remained with them always, and now they made the painful journey to the corporeal world to comfort their descendants in this time of utmost tragedy. Even the dead were mourning, it seemed.

By the time the procession reached the temple the air was almost too thick to breathe. At the ghostfence the priestesses drew to a stop, so abrupt and unexpected that Almalexia barely avoided bumping into her mother’s corpse. Horrified murmurs erupted amongst the procession as the mourners realized why they’d halted-- a Nord stood barring their way. Almalexia recognized him with a pang of dread as Chemua, the muscular and fair-haired Nord who dubbed himself the Jarl of Mournhold. Now he stood as an impassible statue before the ghostfence gates of Temple Indoril, his arms crossed stalwart across his chest and his naturally stern complexion grimacing at the crowd.

In the end it was Almalexia who first mustered the bravery to confront him. She stepped out of the procession and approached Chemua with her head held high.

“Step aside, muthsera.” she commanded, her voice clear and calm. “This is my mother’s funeral.”

Chemua nodded at the corpse. “That crown on her head.” he grunted. “Make sure it stays down there. I’m done with giving elves fancy titles.” The ground trembled with the force of his words; Tongues with as much strength as Chemua could rarely speak without stirring the earth on which they stood. Almalexia lifted her chin and opened her mouth to reply, only for Sotha Sil to drag her back and hiss a warning in Chimeris against her ear. Chemua turned and stalked off.

Only members of House Indoril were permitted to enter the temple grounds, so the procession dwindled drastically as they resumed their passage through the bone-lined gates. Inside of the glowing ghostfence lay a small and barren courtyard, strewn with the bones of skeletal protectors that even now regarded the living with leering eye-sockets. The temple was equally simple, wrought not from Mournhold’s lilac stone but from the simple shell and mud that the earliest of Veloth’s pilgrims had used to craft their shelters. Inside of the temple was a low-ceilinged and circular chamber, from which stairways stretched into the ground like roots. Here the priestesses departed with a bow. Only Almalexia, the direct descendant of the deceased, could enter the catacombs that sheltered her royal ancestors. She found herself alone with her mother, or the remains of her mother. Almalexia took a deep breath, cast a wary glance at the corpse, and began the descent.

The Velothi made a frequent habit of communing with their ancestors, and would seek their advice on matters both grave and trifling. Almalexia herself had made this journey countless times before and spoken with her forebearers more times than she could guess. Those same ancestors were present now: spectres and skeletons that pressed close from the shadows and whispered amongst themselves as the living walked passed. “Ayem.” They murmured to her. “Boethiah.” She tried her best to ignore them.

At the bottom of the stairway lay the vast pit of ash that served as the final resting place of Queens. Almalexia’s mother seemed to know this, for the corpse marched dutifully into the pit, while Almalexia herself stopped on the edge. She exhaled; the corpse slowly turned back around and fixed its eyes on its daughter. Suddenly Almalexia had to fight back the impulse to retch. She hastily raised her hands to begin the dispelling ritual.

“Do not forget the crown.” One of her ancestors whispered against her ear.

Almalexia ignored them. She focused on performing the ritual that would release the soul from the body.

The spirits sighed in disappointment. “Boethiah, Boethiah. Are you so powerless, so cowardly? Are you so weak?”

Their murmurs only drove her unease, until it became unbearable. Almalexia did away with the ritual altogether, casting a hasty fireball at the corpse before whirling to face the ghosts that were crowding in around her.

“I’m not taking the crown.” she told them firmly. “Chemua would kill me.”

“So disappointing.” her ancestors sighed. “A failure to our line of Queens.”

“Be silent” Almalexia hissed. The whispers, scornful and derisive, only raised in pitch.

“She’s scared. Weak.”

“Weak. Cowardly.”

“Feeble. Good only as a wife.”

“The Nords will kill her, all the better.”

“Oh, Boethiah…”

“Silence!” Almalexia’s cry echoed around the chamber. “What would you have me do!?”

Suddenly the burning corpse flared, so bright that it filled the whole chamber with its searing light, and when it receded Almalexia barely managed to stifle her scream. Before her stood a spirit, though this one was far more corporeal than any of her conjured ancestors and a thousand times more terrifying. He was clad head to toe in ebony armor, a pitch-black sword hanging from his belt, and even as she stared in mute horror he offered out her mother’s crown.

“AYEM AE SEHTI AE VEHK.” His voice was loud as thunder, sweet like blood. “Wear the skin of Trinimac. Wield the hands of Mephala. Heed Azura’s knowledge. Take the crown!”

She snatched it from his hands and fled.

Many of the mourners were still waiting outside the gate of the ghostfence, each harboring the vain hope that their deceased rulers had imparted some ancient wisdom onto their youngest descendant. They scrambled back in alarm as Almalexia came bursting through the gate. She skidded to a stop and doubled over, wheezing for breath, the crown still clutched tightly in her hands. The air was thick with ash, but it tasted sweet in comparison to the muggy stench of the tomb. She gulped it in like a drowning man.

“Muthsera! Lady Almalexia!” someone cried out in concern. Almalexia took a deep breath and stood up straight, brushing loose hair from her eyes.

“Muthsera,” someone else called out, concerned, “Are you harmed? Did something happen?”

Countless eyes were fixed on Almalexia with unrestrained eagerness, so pure that it might be mistaken for hope. She’d seen that expression in a crowd before, but from behind the skirts of her mother’s robes while the Queen addressed them. For a moment it seemed odd that they’d look at her like that, the trembling heiress covered in ash-- however, quite suddenly, Almalexia realized that they must be as scared as she was. The Queen had been the only thing standing between them and the Nords, the single sign that their culture was not completely lost. So long as there was a Mother of Mournhold, there was hope for the people. And with their Mother of Mournhold dead, the Velothi had none to look towards but the young and terrified daughter that now stood before them. Her heart ached for them, and her mercy compelled her to step forwards, lifting the crown high for all to see.

“They’ve said,” her voice rang out across the crowd, “They wish me to take the crown. They told me to call a moot.”

 

***

 

In 1E240 the Nords had charged out of Skyrim and rampaged through Morrowind with devastating success. By the time their armies reached Mournhold, tales of their conquer were so widespread that the Velothi wept openly in the streets and sealed themselves within their family tombs in fear. The late Queen herself knew that resistance would be hopeless, and so did something that earned her the ire of traditionalists even to this day-- she surrendered the city to the invaders. However, to prevent the more stubborn citizens from rising up against this foreign rule, she persuaded the Nords that she should be permitted to keep her title of ‘Queen’ and act as counselor to whatever ruler they’d instate. This arrangement satisfied Nords and Velothi alike, and so Mournhold went on to experience an era of relative peace among the turmoil.

By some odd coincidence, it had been Chemua’s grandfather who brokered the original deal, and if his current tempestuous mood was anything to go by Chemua had failed to inherit even a scrap of his ancestor’s tolerance. The Jarl paced back and forth across the palace’s vast throne room, his hands clasped behind his back and his face as dark as the ash-heavy sky outside. Across from him Almalexia stood stone-still, watching him with caution that bordered on trepidation.

“You’re gutsy, girl, I’ll give you that.” Chemua finally broke the silence in a growl that made the windows shake.

“Nordic custom is that a moot convenes to decide on the next ruler when the previous one dies.” Almalexia replied calmly. “Mournhold is property of Skyrim. Should we not follow your customs?”

“If you think you can sneak in and wrest power--” Chemua stopped when his voice rose to such a strength that the windows threatened to crack. Almalexia seized the opportunity to butt in.

“But it’s not truly power. My mother had no real power and you know this. The title of Queen is purely customary, used to bring peace to the people.”

Chemua snorted in disbelief. “Right, that’s it. You’re asking because you want a pretty crown.”

“What I want is to protect my people.” This assertion seemed to be met only with Chemua’s skepticism, so she pressed on. “The citizens love me, but they’re scared of you. They fear you’ll send them all off to war. But if you made me Queen, I could win their love for you. I could earn you the alliance of the Great Houses, who could offer you soldiers, guards, allies-- all of which, serjo, we are in sore need of. We’ve been at war for almost 30 years now. Accept my help when I beg to give it to you.”

Chemua was watching her warily and even with the spacious council table between them Almalexia felt like he was looming over her. Outside, night was falling, conspiring with the ash to turn the world beyond a filthy black. A spider dropped down the window to spin its web.

Almalexia took a hesitant step forwards just as Chemua burst into laugher. “Damned, sneaky elves.” he chuckled, the masonry moving with him. “Hoag was right. No good sneaks, every single one of you.”

“You don’t trust me.”

“Why should I?” he spat. “You got pretty words, but I know you hate my kind just as much as we hate yours.”

“As much as I hate yours?” Wear the skin of Trinimac, wield the hands of Mephala. Almalexia bristled and stepped forwards, meeting the Chieftain’s eye. “Have you forgotten that I grew up under your kind? I’ve been hearing your tales, learning your customs and playing with your guards since I was just a little girl. Your own Housecarl taught me how to use a sword. I...  my Jarl, I’ve admired you since you came to Mournhold. You hate the Chimer, so I haven’t the audacity to ask you to be your queen. I merely ask for a chance to serve you in a way nobody else can.”

The tactic of flattery-seduction, age-old among the Velothi, nonetheless seemed to catch  Chemua off guard. A flush rose to his pale face and he rounded on her, his mouth falling open to choke out a reply. By some fortunate coincidence, however, his rebuttal was cut short by the slam of the Throne Room's door being thrown wide open. “My Jarl,” a Steward announced breathlessly, “The Indoril representative is demanding to know when this alleged moot is going to be held.”

Chemua cast a glance at Almalexia, who met his gaze as boldly as she could. There was a tense moment of silence.

“Set it two weeks from tomorrow.” Chemua finally replied. Almalexia exhaled, bowed, and slipped past him with a murmured ‘thank you’, out of the room. Only now did she realize that her heart had been racing throughout the argument, but deep in her gut was nestled the warm glow of triumph.

Later that night she sought out Sotha Sil in the guest towers of the castle. The two stole a couple bottles of matze from the kitchens and snuck off to one of the unused rooms in the basement, where they could discuss recent developments in peace. Over drinks Almalexia recounted the strange apparition in the tomb and her ancestors’ orders to take the crown, all of which seemed to trouble her friend deeply.  

“So a spirit appeared to you.” Sotha Sil’s eyes were averted and one hand tapped anxiously against the joint of a prosthetic leg. “And he told you to take the crown. Could it have been one of your ancestors?”

Almalexia shook her head. “None of my ancestors could have spoken in… in a voice like that. Besides, he said something in ehlnofex. The Indorils are Aldmeri stock, their tongues speak only Aldmeris.”

Sotha Sil’s eyebrows arched. “What did he say, exactly?”

“Ayem ae Sehti ae Vehk.” Almalexia sighed, deeply, and took a sip of her drink. “I haven’t given it much though. My first assumption was that he was listing names. You call me Ayem and I call you Seht often enough. But then… who’s Vehk? And what has it to do with me taking the crown? This is all too strange, Seht.” She glanced up, then, and frowned. “You look like you’re thinking about something. What is it?”

“Nothing, I think nothing.” Sotha Sil replied, though a little too hasty. “I merely worry for you. This is a perilous game you’re playing. If you aren’t careful, you’ll find a Morag Tong blade in your back.”

“What else was I meant to do?” she retorted. “If I hadn’t, I’d be reduced to some low-rate noble, the Indorils would sell me off to the first general that wanted some spare esteem. Besides, I’ll have power here. I’ll be able to prepare Mournhold for when--”

“Don’t say it--”

“For when the hortator comes.” Almalexia finished firmly.

Sotha Sil let out an exasperated sigh. “You truly believe there’s going to be a war, don’t you?”

“Don’t you? It was you that Azura appeared to.”

“That was a dream, Ayem.”

“It was a prophecy. Even if it wasn’t, the Nords are growing anxious. The War of Succession is making them vulnerable. It’s only a matter of time until we shake them off. I don’t care if I have to pick up a sword and name myself Hortator, Sil. I will not spend my whole life as some… some puppet-Queen to the Nords!”

She spoke with such passion that it left her breathless. Sotha Sil fell into a contemplative silence, still bearing a deep frown, and Almalexia watched his face patiently. It seemed an eternity before he let out a soft sigh, and got to his feet, placing his cup back on the table

“Fine.” he replied. “Very well. I make no promises. But, if nothing else, you’ll have the support of House Sotha, and I’ll speak to House Telvanni’s representatives. But I’ll need to inform my father of what you intend.” Almalexia broke into a thankful grin, while Sotha Sil turned to leave-- only for the latter to pause in the doorway. “Oh, and Almalexia?”

“Hm?”

“Next time you see Boethiah, be a bit more courteous when accepting presents from him.”

 

***

 

The day of the moot was clear and sunny, with winds blowing from the south having left Mournhold’s air warm and clear, if not a little humid. The city itself was alive with vendors and businessmen, all eager to take advantage of House diplomats that hailed from as far away as Dagon Fel. In the end only House Redoran had declined to attend the moot; the other Houses, smelling opportunity on the winds, had been all too keen to send their Grand Councillors to decide the matter of the capital’s next Queen.

Almalexia now stood at the head of the vast circular table that had been assembled in the Throne Room. To each side of her stood a member of the Guild of Shouts, both Nords, though they’d been born and raised in Mournhold and were more loyal to the royalty than their native land. She’d chosen them by hand, soldiers she’d known since she was a child and trusted with her life. She’d also hidden a dagger in her lavish ceremonial robes-- when murder was an accepted political tactic among your race, it was wise to keep protection close at hand.  

A clock chimed ten. The door creaked open and Almalexia turned to greet the Grand Counsellors as they walked in.

Voryn Dagoth, the handsome and gently-spoken Grand Counsellor for House Dagoth, was the first to arrive. House Dagoth occupied northernmost reaches of Morrowind, leading a tenuous existence between Nord and Dwemer enemies that plagued the extent of their land. This perilous life hadn’t yet made its mark on Voryn. The Grand Councillor was mild-mannered and thoughtful, with a face that betrayed an otherwise guarded wisdom. When Almalexia extended her hand in greeting he ignored it and instead dipped into a deep bow. Behind him his four elder brothers did the same, and then they went in to take their place at the table.

The quiet arrival of House Dagoth was quickly overshadowed by House Indoril’s boisterous appearance. There were dozens of them, as many as could earn a place at the moot plus their guards, and each greeted Almalexia with a little too much warmth, as if to remind her that, Queen or not, she was Indoril and owed them her allegiance. The Indorils were quickly replaced with a small throng of Hlaalu representatives, none of whom Almalexia recognized, and then she was shaking the hand of a tall and elderly mer who introduced himself as Sadras Suran, Grandmaster of Redoran banner-House Sadras. The Throne room was quickly filling now, with each House picking its seat judiciously according to alliance and rivalry, and already the chatter had taken on a low and scheming tone.

“Dres Thalthil.” Two tall and grizzled mer, clad in ceremonial armor with strider-leg spears strapped across their backs, stopped at the door. “And Dres Khizumet’e. My son.” Almalexia bowed them both in with a polite greeting of her own. It was House Dres’ presence that concerned her most. The House’s holdings were mainly outside of the Nord’s grasp, but Dres Thalthil had been the King of Ebonheart before the Nords had sacked it. Mournhold and Ebonheart were bitter rivals even to this day, and the ornery Grand Councillor was bound to cause trouble.  

That left House Telvanni, naturally, as the last to arrive. Divayth Fyr, young but notoriously clever, gave her a brief apology when they finally did show up, saying only that a companion had distracted him with an interesting theory. Behind him stood Sotha Sil and Sotha Sil’s father, who greeted her with a sheepish shrug and a fond grin respectively. Almalexia returned the grin and guided them to the last remaining section of the table, between House Dagoth and House Hlaalu. She’d been acquainted with House Sotha since she was young, and considered them more of a family to her than even the Indorils were; Sotha Sil might as well have been her brother.

The six House representatives were assembled. Almalexia walked in and took her place at the head of the table. Now they simply had to wait for Chemua and his steward to arrive. None of the representatives seemed too impatient, so Almalexia took this moment to look them all over closely. Voryn Dagoth and Sotha Sil were deep in discussion; Dres Thathil was showing a few Indoril guards his spear; the Hlaalu cohort were marvelling over the elaborate Nordic battle-scenes carved into the face of the council table; Sadras Suran appeared to be asleep. The room was filled with amiable chatter, which was nigh on a miracle, considering the history of warfare and rivalry that lay between those assembled. Almalexia exhaled and let herself relax. Perhaps this would be less eventful than she’d feared.

The chatter was cut short by the slamming of the council-room door. All turned to face the newcomers and Almalexia felt her breath leave her throat.

Chemua stood in the doorway, accompanied by four other Nords, each dressed in clothing and armor so resplendent that she knew who they must be immediately. All were silent as the five Jarls dispersed around the room, taking their seats alongside the House they unofficially presided over. Chemua himself took position next to Almalexia, and waited until all had settled in their appropriate places before speaking.

“Well, little elf.” he growled. “You asked for a moot and you got one. Let’s get on with it.”

Almalexia took a deep breath and stood. “I would like to begin by introducing all attendants.” she spoke in a clear voice and in perfect Aldmeris, voice echoing across the room; she’d memorized the names beforehand. “From Great House Indoril, Grand Councillor Indoril Nam, beside Jarl Chemua of Mourning Hold. From Great House Telvanni, Councillor Divayth Fyr, alongside Jarl Jurgen Wind-Caller of Mora’s Hold. From House Dagoth, Grand Councillor Voryn Dagoth, alongside Jarl Ysmir the Silent of Vvardenhold. From House Hlaalu, Councilor Andrano Llervu alongside Jarl Barfok of Narsis-Hold. House Redoran is represented by Sadras Suran of Redoran banner-House Sadras, also presided over by Jarl Barfok. House Dres, though not part of the Nordic Empire, has kindly decided to attended the council and is represented by Grand Councilor Dres Thalthil. They sit alongside Jarl Hoag… Hoag Mer-Killer of Ebonhold.”

There were a few uneasy murmurs in response to the introductions. Tension was already mounting in the room-- Indoril Nam was frowning in marked distaste, while Hoag and Dres Thalthil were eyeing each other so viciously that Almalexia feared they’d break into open combat atop the table. She hastily continued.

“We gather here today to discuss the future of our home. As Mournhold is the capital of its province, the ruler of Mournhold is by title the ruler of Morrowind. Skyrim’s custom is that this matter should be decided by a moot, so that all of those the heir would rule may approve of the decision. This is why I’ve called you here today.

"As of now, I am the only claimant to the throne. But Jarl Chemua would also vye for it, as he wishes to abolish Mournhold’s imperial lineage--”

Almalexia was interrupted by a cough. Dres Thalthil stood and, with eyes narrowed, announced:

“You speak incorrectly, sera, as there are two claimants. I claim the throne and motion to rename Tear the capital of Morrowind, being the only city whose leading council is free of outlander scum.”

“Scum?!” The red-faced Jarl Hoag roared in objection, the force of his voice shaking the whole room. “You say that, you disgusting savage? Your kind is rare better than beasts, and yet you’d be so arrogant--”

“Hoag!” Jarl Barfok sung out, and her own voice thrummed with some untold power. “Fall silent. Thy breath stinks like sewer-scum.” Hoag did indeed fall silent, though evidently not by his own decision, and Jarl Barfok sat back smugly, turning her attention back to Almalexia. “Men are so noisy. But go on, lass?”

Almalexia, perhaps slightly cowed, crossed her arms and looked around the table. Dres Thalthil was still standing, with his son behind him grasping a spear, while Hoag was struggling to reclaim his voice from whatever word of power Barfok had used to silence him.

“Personally,” Indoril Nam remarked, before Almalexia could speak, “I’d rather swallow a cliff-racer whole than see Dres Thalthil be king. Slaughtering lizards does not qualify one to rule. Nay, House Indoril supports Lady Almalexia’s claim, with sincerest apologies to our diplomatic Jarl.”

“House Dagoth also supports Almalexia’s claim, and Jarl Ysmir is in agreement.” The announcement caught everyone off guard, and all eyes turned to Voryn Dagoth, who met the attention with a polite smile. Jarl Ysmir, sitting next to him, nodded.

“House Telvanni also supports it.” Shocked stares turned now to Divayth Fyr, who’d also remained sitting, though he looked significantly less courteous. “Well, House Telvanni cares not. But House Sotha, one of our banner-Houses, considers Lady Almalexia akin to family. House Telvanni has been assured that Lady Almalexia will remember our gracious support and distant kinship. May I leave now?”

Dres Thalthil made an audible sound of derision. “Pah! Loincloth-licks, each one of your Houses.” He pulled out his spear and slammed it down on the table. “I’ll be dead in the ground before I give any title to some bastard concubine of a Nord’s--”

“Serjo, watch your mouth--”

“I watch nothing! If you think she isn’t fucking them, just like her mother was--”

“Father, stop.”

“Don’t shush me, Khizumet’e, I’m not paying fealty to some human-loving whore-toy--”

Those insults were the last straw for Almalexia’s already thread-thin patience. Before anyone could stop her, she’d drawn a dagger from her robes and was pressing it to Thalthil’s throat. “Our first ancestor Boethiah beseeches us to slaughter those who bar us from power.” She said it sweetly, but it came out almost as a hiss. “Shall I prove my loyalty to Him by doing as he bids? Or is that too much for a Nord’s concubine?”

Dres Khizumet’e’s spear prodded her shoulder. She regained control of herself and slunk back to her place, but with her teeth bared like a threatened nix-hound. Dres Thalthil spat at her, but he too sunk back into his chair, flushing with shame at his own behavior.

Sadras Suran took that opportunity to stand and make his own announcement. “House Redoran,” he began, “Finds this… this ‘Moot’ idea to be Nordic, unconventional, and quite frankly, unacceptable. Your surrender of our sacred customs is disgusting. House Redoran will refuse to take any part in it hereon, and only attended to make its contempt known.” With that trite declaration, the elderly mer turned on his heel and stalked out of the room with his head held high, leaving the onlookers speechless.

“Lovely.” Chemua snorted under his breath in amusement.

“With all due respect, Lady Almalexia, I’m forced to concur with our compatriots from House Redoran.” Andrano Llevule began apologetically, rising to his feet. “House Hlaalu has nothing but our best wishes for you, and I’m certain you’d make a splendid ruler, but we lack the… ah… persuasion necessary to be so bold as to support your claim. Accept our humblest regrets.” Almalexia watched helplessly as the Hlaalu councillor bowed and hastily followed in Sadras’ trail. Their departure left only four Great Houses remaining, and an uncomfortable silence descended over them as each weighed their next decision.

“Well!” Barfok broke the silence in a cheerful voice. She banged her fist on the table and gave the room a toothy grin. “I, for one, support the little elf.”

“YOU WHAT?!” Hoag had broken through her enchantment, apparently. He stood and smashed his own fist into the table, so hard that the wood threatened to shatter.

“Look at her!” Barfok protested, waving at Almalexia. “She’s just a child! Have you all turned so craven you’re afraid of a mere pup? Let the elves have their girl-king! It affects us not.”

Hoag roared a word in a foreign language, and his thu’um sent Barfok soaring into the air before smashing into the wall behind her. The room descended into chaos, with everyone either reaching for a weapon or ducking for cover as Hoag mounted the table, marching straight to the place where Barfok lay crumpled and coughing on the floor.

And suddenly a voice both horrible and awe-inducing filled the chamber, making the masonry tremble. It was only a few seconds before it subsided, but those seconds felt like hours, and when the air fell clear all found their eyes directed at Ysmir, who stood large as a dragon before them. Hoag was frozen, still as a perfect statue in the middle of the table, with his axe still raised in the air mid-swing. Almalexia wrenched her gaze away from him and ran over to where Barfok was struggling to climb to her feet. She helped the battered Jarl to her feet and then allowed her to lean on her shoulder as they made their way back to the table. “Thank you.” Almalexia whispered before she returned to her place beside Chemua.

Ysmir, too, slowly returned to his seat, and Voryn Dagoth explained to the room that it would wear off in an hour or so. Almalexia was more concerned on what effect this would have on the voters.

Then the Jarl of Mournhold stood and clapped his hands to get attention. “Well,” his gaze was fixed on Almalexia, “You got three of your Great Houses with you, and two of them want no part in it. You’ll need the last one to be queen.”

Almalexia looked hopelessly at Dres Thalthil, who was paying no notice to her, fixated as he was on the perfect statue of Hoag that still stood atop the table. His son, Dres Khizumet’e, gave her a knowing wink.

“Muthsera?” A low voice interrupted them, and all turned in surprise to the speaker, a guard clad in the garb of the Guild of Shouts. He shrunk back and blushed at so much attention, but forced himself to keep speaking. “I got to ask. If you get to be queen, are you gonna take care of the Argonian raids going on south of Narsis? Your ma didn’t seem so concerned with them, see, but I got family near the border, and I always thought we should send a few troops to look after them, seeing how they’re technically in our Hold and all…”

He trailed off, obviously uncertain, but Almalexia had already moved her attention to Chemua. “Did you know about this?”

“I knew, but like hell I’m going to send good soldiers to defend a bit of backwater swamp.” Chemua scowled.

Almalexia turned her attention to the Dres representatives. “And you, Thalthil? Why have you been allowing Argonians to ravage your holdings?”

That got a reaction from the ornery old mer. Dres Thalthil blushed, scowled, and hissed something under his breath to his son. When Almalexia’s attention didn’t move on, he straightened up and growled, “We’ve been preoccupied with the Ebonheart raids… lack of men to spare….”

“A lack of men that could be aided by Mournhold, perhaps?”

“Bah!” Dres Thalthil spat and turned away. “Fine! Have it your way, you damned snake. Be the Queen of whatever wretched city you like. I’m done with these beast-infested politics.” And with that the surly Councillor turned on his heel and marched out, leaving Almalexia to process the decision that had just been made.

“That decides it, then!” Divayth Fyr stood and bowed. “My humblest congratulations, Queen Almalexia. I’ll see you at the ceremony.”

Then the chamber dissolved into a chaos of discussion and cheers and angry exclamations. Almalexia hardly noticed as someone pulled her to her feet, and then Voryn Dagoth was shaking her hand with a warm ‘congratulations’, and so many Indorils were hugging her and patting her on the back, and Jarl Barfok came up to embrace her, and someone kissed her on the cheek, and she found herself smiling, thanking people and expressing her gratitude with all the benevolence and gracefulness of a true Queen.  

Gradually the room began to empty. Dres Khizumet’e waited until it was mostly clear before he came up and tapped Almalexia on the shoulder with a soft cough. She turned to face him, then smiled and gave him a warm embrace. “I must thank you for that tip about the Argonian raids. That went splendidly.”

“Your guard is a good actor.” he replied. “And-- forgive my father. Old age is addling his senses, methinks.”

“All is forgiven, my loyal friend.” She kissed the man on the cheek and then watched him leave with a satisfied smile. She was alone in the room now, spare the still-petrified Hoag on the table, and with eyes no longer watching her she let mouth split into a childish grin. That had played out perfectly.

Her ancestors would be proud.

 

***

 

“Well, you proved yourself right.” Sotha Sohleh chuckled, patting Sil on the back. “Little Lexie had it in her after all. Queen of Mournhold… now that’s a title.”

Grand Councillor and son sat in their chambers atop one of the castle’s towers, looking out at the city of Mournhold. The city was one of the first that the Velothi had constructed, and its humble beginnings had long given way to breathtaking towers wrought from stones of pale lilac and gleaming green spires that seemed to be aflame in the setting sun. It was beautiful, without a doubt, but the humidity in the air only made Sotha Sil feel vaguely homesick.

“It’s a title.” Sil sighed in reply. “If anyone deserves it, it’s her. She’ll make a good Queen.”

Sotha Sohleh frowned. “You aren’t happy?”

“I’m not displeased.” Sil said after a moment. “But... it’s a dangerous position. I’m simply worried for her. She’s my friend and I don’t wish to see her hurt.”

That made his father chuckle, and the elder man sat back, pouring himself another cup of shein. “She’s a clever girl. I’m sure she’ll be fine. Besides, she’ll have you by her side to keep her out of trouble.”

Sotha Sil shook his head. “Not by her side. Ald Sotha is too far away--”

“I know.” his father replied.  

Sotha Sil felt his heart plummet, an odd sense of foreboding creeping into his throat. “You aren’t saying--”

“Come, Sil. You don’t truly believe that House Telvanni supported Almalexia’s claim from the kindness of their hearts? I guaranteed to them that we’d place someone within her courts to keep an eye on her.”

“No.” Sil said quickly, “Not me. Someone, anyone else--”

“She trusts you. House Indoril will not suspect you.”

“I cannot do this. You cannot force me to do this, father. Ald Sotha is my home. My loyalty is to my House. I belong with my family, not in Mournhold’s snake-pit of a court!”

“Ald Sotha is your home, but not where you belong.” His father’s expression was that of sympathy, but his voice didn’t waver. “You will best serve the interests of House Sotha and House Telvanni here.”

“Please...”

Sotha Sohleh shook his head, and Sotha Sil slumped back into his chair, the misery of the situation washing over him in a sudden wave. Ald Sotha was his home, where he’d been born and raised. He belonged with the thriving village by the lagoon, the humid salt-sticky air, with the gaggle of apprentices that would follow him around with wide eyes, with his shrieking bickering cousins who chased dreugh scavengers and dunked each other underwater, with his grandmother’s stories and his mother’s ever-fretful worrying. To be exiled from somewhere so dear, forced to carry on alone and in a foreign city, made his heart ache so badly that it was almost unbearable.

But his father’s decision was final and as a member of House Sotha he had no choice. It would mean being lonely and far from all he loved, but at least he could further their interests while away. He swallowed thickly and nodded.

“You’re a grown man, Sil.” his father said sympathetically, reaching over to pat his shoulder. “You carry the legacy of House Sotha on your shoulders. And I’ve no doubt you’ll go on to be more influential than I could dream-- one day the name Sotha will grace every tongue in Morrowind! But you are also young. You need time to grow and learn of the Velothi. For now, your place is here.”

“As long as you don’t ask me to marry her.” Sotha Sil replied, numb. “She’d murder me.”

 

***

 

Ash fell over Mournhold the day Almalexia was coronated.

She stood in the courtyard clad in ceremonial robes of gleaming green, her flame-red hair swept high on her head. Sotha Sil was at one side, Chemua on the other, the Great House representatives behind her, and behind them the Jarls. There was laughter and singing and jests, and when the conjured ghost of her mother placed the crown on Almalexia’s head the people cheered so loudly that Mournhold itself seemed to shake with joy.

Afterwards Almalexia insisted on walking through the city so that each of her citizens could greet her in person. This time the ash fell not on mourning but on celebration. Almalexia found that it was getting in her eyes, but her hands were so busy touching and greeting countless citizens that she couldn’t find the time to wipe it away. The people-- her people, she reminded herself, her loving citizens-- wouldn’t let her hands go free, so intent they were on touching the new Mother of Mournhold. Their breaths held countless praises, words of thanks, bids for luck, promises they exhaled as they clutched one of her palms in both of theirs and squeezed it as if pressing in their all their love.

Her voice was hoarse by the time they passed from the plaza district to the east district, her hands sore from being clasped by so many. The ash was falling quite thickly now, and it only served to make this poor district of the city look dirtier and more decrepit than it usually did. One of the Shouts serving as her bodyguard insisted on returning to the castle, but Almalexia stubbornly refused. The poor, she said, so long neglected by the ruling Nords, deserved her love perhaps more than anyone. Before they could attempt to halt her she pressed into the throng and redoubled her efforts to show her love to every single mer that approached her.

They were halfway through the district when they heard the scream.

At first only Almalexia heard it. She stopped in her tracks, distracted, whilst an elderly woman tried to press a sack of saltrice into her arms. Her guard, when asked, insisted that she’d merely misheard some random fragment of noise in the crowd, and urged her to move on, perhaps a little too anxiously. All doubt was put to rest when the blood-curdling noise sounded again, this time accompanied by faint cries for help. Immediately Almalexia was off and pushing through the crowd, elbowing people out of the way in an effort to find the source of the desperate screaming.

In the narrow gap between two buildings, half-hidden by a bush, a woman lay writhing on the ground. Two mer were already by her side, one holding her head and the other crouching next to her, but both looked scared and shocked, so when Almalexia charged in they didn’t hesitate to yield control of the situation. She barked an order and they carried the screaming woman out to the front of a building, where Almalexia could kneel by her proper. The woman was bleeding from something, badly, and even as Almalexia tried to find the wound she screamed and contorted so violently that a bystander had to grab her shoulders to keep her steady.

A ring was forming around them, the people watching in shock and horror, but none dared approach to offer assistance. Almalexia paid them no mind. She’d been wearing a dagger under her robes, and now she pulled it out, using it to cut away the woman’s blood-drenched clothing in an increasingly desperate bid to find the wound. She pulled away the woman’s sodden skirt-- and then recoiled with a sharp gasp, the knife falling from her hand.

She was giving birth.

“Blankets!” Almalexia ordered, though her voice was somewhat shaky. “And water! Someone fetch them, now!” Someone ran to obey even as Almalexia cradled the woman’s head in her arms. The woman’s eyes were unfocused, her mouth stretched wide in perpetual agony, and she responded to nothing, so Almalexia moved her attention to the half-birthed babe. Another horrible shriek and the mother jerked, the motion so hideous that for a moment Almalexia feared it was a death-throw. But the baby had slid onto the ground, unmoving, and horror gripped Almalexia’s heart--

It let out a tiny gurgle, then began to cry. Almalexia lifted its bloody form to her breast and tried to smudge the ash from its face. It was shrieking, blessedly alive, and she clutched it close even as someone returned with blankets.

A limp hand touched her thigh and Almalexia turned her vision to the mother. She was no longer shrieking, but her eyes were dull and almost dead. Her hand moved again. There was so much blood, too much, even as someone called for a healer Almalexia knew with horrid certainty that it was far too late.

Then the life left her eyes entirely and she slumped to the ground. Almalexia shuddered in revulsion and turned back to the shrieking creature in her arms. “Shh, shh…” her lips grazed its bloody forehead and she rocked back and forth to soothe it. “There, shh... “

“Lady Almalexia!” Her concerned Shouts had caught up and were kneeling next to her. “Whose blood is that? Are you okay? Gods, by the eight--”

“I got blankets and water, here--”  
“Is she dead? Oh, Azura--”

The voices around her dissolved into meaningless noise. Her attention wasn’t on them, anyway. The babe in her arms was gradually growing quiet as she rocked it, its cries receding to gurgles and whimpers. Someone pressed a damp cloth into her arm. She took it and began to clean the baby off, whispering words of love and reassurance to its fragile form as she wiped the blood from its body. It was Chimeri, its skin pale gold, with eyeballs and ears too big for its little head. As Almalexia cleaned the blood from its face it opened its eyes and took its first uncertain look at the world. 

One of the Shouts dragged her back to reality. “The mother,” he began, voice apologetic, “She… she’s dead, my lady.”

“Who was she?” Almalexia asked, detached.

A long moment of silence. “A vagabond,” someone from the crowd finally answered. “Wandered in here last week. Didn’t speak a word, no relatives that we know of.”

Almalexia had no reply to that. The baby had finally calmed down, no longer troubled by the rag against its skin. The crowd, murmuring to each other, watched in quiet awe, and even her Nordic guards stood helplessly aside.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” someone finally asked.

Almalexia gently wiped the gore from between its legs, then gasped. “Oh-- it has both.”

“A hermaphrodite?”

“An abomination!”

“Kill it, it’s cursed!”

Almalexia got to her feet, the now-clean baby cradled protectively to her chest. “If you wish to murder a helpless child,” she replied coldly, glaring out at the crowd, “You are welcome to discuss the matter with me personally. I warn you, however, that I will not take kindly to the request.” The crowd recoiled at that threat and Almalexia turned her attention back to the child. He was no longer crying, but blinked up at her with wide eyes, as thoughtful as a newborn babe could be. She shrugged the ornamental cloak from her shoulders and used it to swaddle him.  

“Well,” one of her bodyguards coughed uncertainly, “Aren’t you gonna name it?”

The child had wise eyes, she thought vaguely. Knowing eyes, thoughtful, liquid clear and pale like gold. At once she was reminded of burning fire in a narrow tomb, the golden gleam of flames on a wall, a voice like honey and blood, and a seven-syllable spell where only two names were known...

“Vehk.” she announced, for all to hear. “His name is Vehk.”


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, and for the majority of the fic, Vehk's gender will be somewhat of an ambiguity. Therefore, in order to avoid confusion, they're written using gender-neutral pronouns ze/hir.

_1E397, Rain's Hand._

_Ayem came first to the village of the netchimen, and her shadow was that of Boethiah, who was the Prince of Plots, and things unknown and known would fold themselves around her until they were like stars or the messages of stars._

* * *

 

Mournhold’s Guild of Shouts, the official guard force of the city, had been established shortly after the War of Succession began in Skyrim. Initially Mournhold’s Guard force had consisted of Nords from all across the First Empire. Many of these were outlanders, and loathed their placement in the alien land of Morrowind; when the fighting began they were swift to seize the opportunity and escape via enlistment. Those that remained were largely Nords who considered Mournhold their home, and had adopted a sense of patriotism that was once only found in the Chimer. Although the passion of these remainders was undoubtedly great, they were sparse in number, and so to compensate for the loss of manpower the Queen had decreed that House Indoril should be allowed to resume its lawkeeping activities within the city. This was much to the guard’s offence, and so they retaliated; with indignant patriotism they reorganized, rebanded, and renamed themselves the Guild of Shouts in homage to their distinctly Nordic heritage. The Guild became a group that was, as they claimed, “for those of us that aren’t damned elves but love this place all the same.”

Thirty years on, the Guild was still charged with protecting the castle and its esteemed inhabitants. Many members were particularly endeared to the elven royalty, loving them even more than their Nordic Jarl, whom they felt failed to share their stubborn sense of belonging in what had long ago become their home. Thus, it was no surprise that the Guild’s barracks were chaotic with celebration on the day of Almalexia’s coronation. Several soldiers were old enough to have known their new Queen when she was just a little girl, and their countless anecdotes made them the centre of attention as the night wore on.

“You know, I knew Lady Almalexia when she was no taller than my waist.” Second Commander Heigl Ash-Helm recounted fondly from where she sat atop a bench, nursing a mug of sujamma while younger guards crowded around her. “She was a lively one, all right, always has been. She couldn’t have been any older than eight when she came up to me and asked, ‘Is it true that Nords fight with their voices?’ And I said, ‘You’d best believe it, sera, or I’ll use my thu’um to shout you right out the window!’ That scared her off quick.”

“You can’t even shout!” A member of the audience protested.

“That ent the point of the story, you dolt. Listen-- the next day I’m guarding the throne room, and what would you know, little Lady Almalexia runs up to the Jarl, and she announces that she’s going to challenge him for his throne. Well, the last Jarl had a sense of humor, so he stands up and says alright, lil elf, let’s see what you’ve got!’ And before he can lift a finger, Lexie takes a deep breath… and starts shrieking at him, loud as she can!”

“You’re joking!”

“I’m serious! The Jarl, well, he’s so surprised that he falls straight back and lands on his rump! And Lexie ran away laughing her head off, she thought she’d used her thu’um to knock him down, you see? So from then on we called her Tongue Almalexia, Demon of the East!”

A cheer of ‘Demon of the East!’ went up through the crowd, and someone called out for more mead. Heigl finished off her drink and sat back, smiling fondly at the memory. Her reminiscence was cut abruptly short when a helmeted figure took a seat next to her.

“Demon of the East, huh?” The figure, a woman, cocked her head. Heigl nodded and lifted her empty mug in tribute. “Aye, Demon of the East! Gods, she’s grown up fast… Seems just yesterday she was sneaking down here for a game of cards...”

The figure chuckled and removed its helm. Heigl gasped, and then split into a wide grin, for there sat Almalexia, her curly hair displaced and messy from the confines of the helmet. “Lady ‘Lexia!” Heigl exclaimed in delight. “Aren’t you supposed to be up at the celebrations?”

“I am, but I snuck out.” Almalexia replied with a smile. “Although I’m not looking just to play cards this time. Chemua’s gotten rather drunk, and I needed to speak to you without his knowledge. Will you accompany me on a walk?”

The two of them slipped from the mayhem and into the castle courtyard. Masser and Secunda hung low overhead, while the midnight sky was alight with a multitude of twinkling stars. Almalexia and Heigl kept close to the walls and were careful to keep their voices low enough that the guards on duty wouldn’t hear them over the racket of celebration.

“I’ll speak frankly with you.” Almalexia kept her eyes focused on the narrow path before them. “But first I must ask-- may I trust you? On your honour as a Nord, on your homeland and all your Gods, as a citizen of Mournhold, will you keep what is said between you and I this night secret?”

Heigl, though her expression betrayed her surprise at such a grim address, nodded. “I swearest to thee, thou hast my word. What’s on your mind, sera?”

“Chemua is.” Almalexia sighed. “He’s furious with me. He never thought that I’d actually win the moot. I fear he’s going to exact his revenge for this somehow-- on me, or even worse, on the people of Mournhold. He’s not like you or I, Heigl. Mournhold isn’t home for him. He loathes this land… He loathes me.”

“He’s the Jarl all the same...”

“A Jarl should care for the people he rules! Chemua doesn’t care for any of us. I confess that I am terrified of what he might do next. If he orders enlistment, or finds pretense to send soldiers into the ancestral tombs, there will be riots. Heigl, he could easily order the Guild to sack the city.”

“We’d never!” Heigl exclaimed hotly. “Not a man would agree to it!”

“Are you sure? First Commander Fenja is Hoag’s brother, one of Chemua’s men, isn’t he?”

Heigl fell into an uncomfortable silence. Almalexia sighed again, and ran a hand through her hair distractedly, dislodging the ash that had settled there.

“You’re scaring me.” Heigl said at last. “I hope you ent planning for it to come to all-out war. I got a husband at home, you know. The last thing I want is for it to come to violence.”

“The Queen’s role has always been to ensure that it doesn’t come to violence between us.” Almalexia replied sincerely. “But Chemua’s holding all the cards. He has power that I don’t. If I’m to keep the people safe, I need my own weapons. I _need_ the Shouts on my side.”

They crossed abruptly into a pool of moonlight, but Heigl flinched and pulled back, seeking refuge in the safety of the shadows. Almalexia automatically put a hand on her shoulder to steady her. The Nords weren’t made for subterfuge like the Chimer were; even now a part of Almalexia regretted dragging the Second Commander into a situation that would be as difficult as this.

“Look, most of us ent fond of him either.” Heigl finally confessed in a low voice. “He’s an ornery bastard. If ever we’ve got to choose, I’d say you have a good sixty percent of us, if not more.”

“I need more than that. Ninety at the least.” Almalexia replied firmly. “If nothing else, I need to know which ones are loyal and which ones aren’t. Can you weed them out for me?”

“Listen, I’m no spy--”

“I know, but you’re the only one can do this. You watched my back at the moot, you’re a friend to me. I trust you.”

The Nord swallowed thickly and, reluctant, nodded. “... Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Thank you, sincerely.”

“But what about First Captain Fenja?”

Hidden by shadow, Almalexia’s eyes seemed to gleam with something malevolent. “I’ll deal with him myself.”

 

***

 

By the time next Sundas morning’s sun rose over Mournhold’s walls, the ash storms of last week had been long blown away, and it was hard to imagine the fragrant air could be anything less than crystalline clear. Gentle winds from the south brought the scent of saltrice plantations sweeping into the city, and the faint hint of blooming crops and fertile soil in the breeze was enough to put a spring in even the most gloomy mer’s step. Atop one of Mournhold’s towers, Sotha Sil leaned almost halfway out the window, inhaling as much as he could of the pleasant morning air in a futile attempt to numb the homesickness that gnawed perpetual at his gut. A pale replacement for the salty humidity of Ald Sotha, to be sure, but it was something.

The dawn’s tranquility was abruptly pierced by the shriek of a baby. It was quieted after a few moments, but the sound had done its part to shake Sotha Sil from his thoughts. He stepped away from the window and shrugged on a robe, then swept neatly out of his room and down the familiar path to Almalexia’s chambers. He had no doubt on where the noise had come from, and that it would’ve roused his friend at even this early hour.

He arrived at Almalexia’s door and found her, predictably, struggling with little Vehk. She was trying with little success to wrap hir in an infant’s ceremonial swaddle; Vehk was protesting vehemently, kicking hir legs and squirming even as the Queen tried to slip hir arms through a tiny sleeve. When Almalexia saw Sotha Sil she let out a relieved gasp and beckoned him over. “Sil! Come hold Vehk for me, I need to get him-- her-- Vehk-- dressed.”

Sotha Sil silently obeyed her, holding the little creature still so that Almalexia could finally bind hir in the lavish garments. One week old and already defying queens, Sotha Sil thought with vague amusement. This child would no doubt have an interesting life.

“Thanks.” Almalexia finally succeeded in her task and promptly swept the babe up in her arms. Vehk, having exhausted hirself in the struggle, settled for drooling on the beautiful cloth. “I’d have never managed that myself. She’s-- he’s a feisty one, alright.”

“Those are a daughter’s clothes.” Sotha Sil observed.

“They were mine. It’s all I had. Besides, I haven’t yet decided whether she-- he-- they-- whether _they_ should be raised as a daughter or as a son.” Almalexia huffed and handed the baby to Sotha Sil. “Hold him. Her. I need to get dressed.”  

Vehk seemed unhappy with this arrangement, and showed hir discontent by slobbering on hir own chin. Sotha Sil grimaced in disgust and wiped the drool away. “What’s the occasion?”

Almalexia had turned her back to him and was concentrating on lacing up her Queen's armor. Sotha Sil put the baby on her bed and walked over to help her, tying the ribbon-clasps of the cuirass as she fastened the ornamental pauldrons to her shoulders. Usually this task was carried out by shield-maidens or favored handmaidens, but evidently today’s occasion was being kept a secret. Almalexia herself didn’t speak until she’d finished armoring herself; her back was still turned to him, but in the mirror he could see that she bore a troubled frown.

“We’re having a funeral for Vehk’s mother.” she confessed.

Vehk let out a little cry, and Almalexia automatically rushed over, gathering hir up in her arms. “Were burying her in the necropolis.” she continued, though distracted by the task of trying to soothe the babe. Sotha Sil walked over and took the (evidently spoiled) child from her arms again, and she promptly moved onto the behemothic task of styling her hair. “There won’t be very many in attendance. We still don’t know who she is, or what family she comes from. I wish we could do more. A priest of Azura will be in attendance, and we’ve invited those who found her first, as well…” She fell silent, focused on balancing a mass of red curls atop her head. Vehk had stopped crying and was blowing spitbubbles at Sotha Sil’s face.

“We have to try and find her family.” Sotha Sil broke the silence in a soft voice.

“I know, I know.” Almalexia sighed. “But paupers wander through Mournhold all the time. It could be that she was from the House of Troubles, or worse… I don’t believe she was, of course, but tracking her family down will be difficult. I would consult my own ancestral spirits for help, were I not expecting them to curse me for taking in a child who isn’t of Indoril blood. I can practically hear my grandmother right now: Disgrace, disgrace! Old hag.” She finished her hair and slipped a crown onto her head before whirling to face him.

Vehk cooed in delight at the sight of hir adopted mother’s face, and that made her break into a wide grin; Sotha Sil couldn’t recall ever seeing her so happy. A pang of guilt struck his heart and he hesitated before saying next:

“No, Ayem. We have to find her family so that we have someone to raise Vehk.”

A moment’s silence. “... What do you mean?”

“You can’t raise him. You know this.”

Emotions flickered over Almalexia’s face-- shock, anger, grief. She settled on anger. “What do you mean, Sil?” she asked, malice creeping into her voice. “He’s mine, and I fully intend to raise him. Her. Vehk.”

“You know you can’t do that, Almalexia. I’ve been speaking with House Indoril and its people-- do you know what they think of the idea of their young unmarried queen raising a child that isn’t her own?”

“But he _is_  my own.” With bared teeth she moved to snatch Vehk from his arms, but Sotha Sil stepped back. “I birthed him. Not from my body, perhaps, but I pulled him from the ash. I kissed the blood from his face and I named him and I will raise him. He is _mine_.”

“You _need_  the Indorils.” Sotha Sil shot back; Vehk was crying now. “Are you planning to send Mournhold’s Shouts to deal with Dres Thalthil? You’ll have a knife in your back before you see Vehk’s first month. Chemua’s waiting with baited breath for the opportunity to get rid of you. You have enemies now, Ayem! Don’t add your own House to that list.”

“Give him to me.” Almalexia muttered. This time Sotha Sil let her take the crying child, and he watched with a grimace as she rocked hir to silence, whispering half-formed blessings and phrases of love until ze calmed.

“I’m here to be your counsellor.” Soha Sil said after a moment, trying to speak gently. “This is my counsel. The decision will always be yours, but you know that I speak the truth.”

Crying seemed to have exhausted little Vehk, as ze had slipped into a light slumber. Almalexia watched hir for a moment, then quickly turned her head away to prevent any tears from falling on hir face. “Just… give me this day with him.” she replied, weakly. “Please.”

Sotha Sil, who knew Almalexia perhaps better than anyone, bowed and left the room.

Duties were suspended on Sundas, and so Sotha Sil was free to do as he pleased. He chose to return to his chambers. Though spare of the homely delights of Ald Sotha, the city of Mournhold had for itself a wealth of oddities and delights that simply weren’t accessible on Vvardenfell. Not least among these were the multitude of pawn shops where one could find Dwemeri scrap, trinkets and oddities and such that thieves had risked their lives to steal. To Sotha Sil, who’d recently taken an interest in mechanics, these dingy little stalls were of more worth than an ebony mine. He was already accumulating a large collection of indecipherable notes and inexplicable brass contraptions-- much to his father’s annoyance.

Thankfully Sotha Sohleh was already off business by the time Sotha Sil had returned to his chambers. He still felt the dull ache of guilt in his stomach, mingling more than ever with the pain of homesickness; if this were Ald Sotha he could seek distraction with his younger siblings, or even advice from his grandmother. For now he was forced to settle for a good book. It was one of the stolen manuals he’d rescued from an unscrupulous bookseller, and while the translation from Dwemeris to Chimeris was clumsy and the diagrams almost indecipherable, puzzling over the nonsensical sentences made for a good distraction, at least. The wizard sat down at a desk, spread out the book alongside his notes, and got dutifully to work.

By some miracle he remained uninterrupted until early in the afternoon. He was midway through solving a particularly convoluted sentence when a brief knock interrupted his work. He hesitated, stood, opened the door-- only to be greeted by the sight of Almalexia, who was wearing a sullen frown.

Both hesitated, and then Almalexia spoke. “Azura’s Chantry, in the southern quarter of East District." she informed him reluctantly. "That’s where Vehk’s mother was staying before… before her death. If you mean to take… them, it’s your duty to find where they must go to.”

She turned and stalked off, and Sotha Sil found that he couldn’t be irate with her, not with the pain of his own exile so fresh.

 

***

 

The orphan, though he’d appeared savvy at first, turned out to be utterly unhelpful. “Lick my spear and I’ll take you anywhere you want.” he’d leered, and Almalexia considered it a token of her unending mercy that she hadn’t kicked him square in the face.

Other residents of Mournhold’s shadier side proved equally useless, shaking off her inquiries with anything from an apologetic ‘no, muthsera’ to a string of obscenities that threatened to make Vehk cry. There had once been a time where summoning the Morag Tong had been as simple as sending a courier to the appropriate guild-hall and mustering the payment. That era was long gone, ushered out by the arrival of the Nords; now those who wished to dispose of someone cleanly were forced to sink beneath public notice and search for someone to take their writ, a task easier said than done.

The sun was setting by the time Almalexia collapsed against a wall with an aggravated sigh. “Wield the Hands of Mephala my…” she grumbled to Vehk, who'd been swaddled and fastened to her breast. For this task she’d disguised herself as a young noblewoman, draped in the traditional finery of House Indoril, though she’d deliberately made a few mistakes in the wear so as to appear ill-accustomed to formality. Her cover story was simple: a soldier had left her with a bastard daughter, she wanted him dead before he could spread the word and disgrace her House. Little Vehk made the story perfectly believable, and ze even seemed to delight in the role, charming strangers with hir thoughtful demeanor and smiling face as if it came naturally. What a shame ze couldn’t stay in Mournhold, Almalexia thought to herself-- ze’d make a diplomat beyond compare. 

Unfortunately, no amount of charming and prodding had managed to draw the elusive Morag Tong from the woodwork. The sun had sunk behind the wall now, casting long shadows over the ground, and a springtime chill seemed to be settling into the air. Almalexia shivered and drew Vehk closer to her breast. 

“Psst!” someone hissed.

Almalexia jumped and whirled around. A different orphan, this one a Chimer, was peering at her from behind a corner. “Are you the one’s on a spider hunt?”

She hesitated, then nodded, and answered with a commoner’s semi-Nordic accent “Aye. What of it?”

The orphan crept up to her and extended a hand that had, Almalexia realized with a pang of shock, been painted black. "Mayhaps I can show you some." he whispered. Apprehensive, she extracted a bundle of coins and scuttle from a pocket and dropped it into his hand. He pocketed the coins, scarfed down the scuttle, and then darted off, disappearing around the corner.

Almalexia followed him around the corner and found a trap-door, holding a ladder that disappeared into gloom. There was no way she could descend while still holding Vehk, so she cast a slow-fall spell upon herself and dropped. The orphan was out of sight when she landed. On either side of her a long tunnel stretched off into gloom, with walls that had a vaguely Dwemeri appearance, bringing to mind rumors of an ancient Dwemer city deep beneath Mournhold. Then the orphan returned with a torch in his hand, and she followed him cautiously through the metallic halls, until they entered a small room.

There was no doubt about the Dwemeri origins of this place now. A massive machine of incomprehensible function sat against one wall, but it was old and had been halfway disassembled, repurposed as a desk and rudimentary furniture. In one corner of the room was a shrine with a dwemer spider crucified against the wall. It was so odd that Almalexia couldn't help but turn to admire it, and in her mystification she failed to notice the slender figure perched on the carcass of the machine. 

“Our aspiring client, I presume?” The figure quipped; the orphan had retreated into darkness.

Almalexia jumped and quickly returned to her act of frightened noble-woman, nodding meekly as she cradled Vehk close to her breast. “Aye, serjo. You’re… you’re the Morag Tong?”

He chuckled. “Correct. You speak with the Grandmaster. You have a writ?”

Timidly, Almalexia pulled a sheet of paper from her robes and offered it out to him. “First Commander Fenja, from the Guild of Shouts.” she reported dutifully. “He-- that fetcher left me with child. Near got me expelled from my House. He told me he’d marry me…” she trailed off as the Grandmaster looked over her contract.

“What are you offering?”

“One thousand coins, serjo, and a glass dagger.”

“I know of Fenja. He’s brother to the one they call Hoaga Mer-Killer. This contract is perilous.”

“Three thousand coins, then, and a ring of great repute among House Indoril.”

The Grandmaster sighed and shook his head. “You make a grand offer, but it is not enough. For this writ there is only one price we will accept.”

Almalexia hesitated. “What is that, serjo?”

“The hermaphrodite child you bear.”

She didn’t have any reply to give. She took a step backwards, raising both arms to shield Vehk. The Grandmaster was no longer smiling; he stood and approached her, his expression grim.

“Come, Lady Almalexia.” his voice was a purr. “You thought we were not there to witness the child’s birth? They were born with the mark of Mephala, her holy son-daughter. They belong with the Morag Tong.”

Almalexia took another step back, slipping her hands into the swaddling as if to clutch the baby more securely. “Come no closer.” she ordered.

“Would you deny the Webspinner’s will?” The Grandmaster laughed. “See! Even now they watch me, learning from my motions.” He advanced as Almalexia continued to retreat, clutching Vehk tight, until she found herself with her back pressed against the closed door.

“Halt!” she ordered. “I warn you!”

“Watch, little Vehk, and learn!” The Grandmaster made a dive forwards--

She pulled the dagger from Vehk’s swaddling and slashed his throat.

In the stories told by the Nords, murder was a meaningful thing; only committed in the heat of battle with glory in the air, or in the dead of night, with a heavy heart and a tumultuous conscience that drove the murderer to near madness. Be it for good or bad, the murderer would always experience great emotion-- and so Almalexia was quite surprised to find that she didn’t feel much of anything. She simply stood, bloodied, stunned, while Vehk pawed at her chest and made the sounds of a child about to burst into tears. She bent her head and hushed hir gently, wiping blood from the infant’s face while with her spare hand she wiped the dagger clean on her robe. On the floor the Grandmaster was still squirming, struggling for his life with his final breaths; it was a rather disgusting sight, Almalexia thought, and so she put him out of his misery with a firm foot to the face.

Vehk began to cry. Ze hadn’t eaten for quite a while, Almalexia realized with concern. She took a burning torch from beside the sconce on the door and hastily started the journey home.

 

***

 

If viewed from the top, the city of Mournhold might look vaguely like a clock. The city was circular, divided into three districts and enclosed by a great wall that was breached by a gate at each point a number might rest. The northmost point was the only exception-- this point held not a gate but the Mournhold Palace, from which its rulers could look over their domain with pride. As in any city, the poor were naturally pushed to one section, and in Mournhold the East District had claimed this duty. It was the southern part of East District that held Azura’s Chantry.

Azura’s Chantry, or the Hospice of Azura, had once been part of a much larger temple. A small canton-like building sitting beside two replicas of itself that had been long been converted into markets or cheap housing, the Hospice itself now served as a shelter for the homeless and desperate. It was the opposite of lavish, its halls cramped and decrepit, but the Chimer people had suffered long under the Nord’s occupation, and too many had nowhere else to go.

Sotha Sil kept his collar high and and his head low as he shoved his way through the claustrophobic halls. Beggars and paupers, all mer, watched him with expressions either wary or desperate as he made his way to a stairwell. He didn’t meet their stares. The poverty of this place made him nauseous with sympathy; for a place named after Azura, these were not people blessed by the Lady of Roses. He shook the thought from his head and descended a flight of stairs.

Beneath the canton lay a worship-room, a modest chamber decorated with roses and containing a few benches that faced an equally simple shrine. Although it was still a few hours before dusk, many faithful sat in the benches, their heads bowed as they prayed to Azura for mercy and respite. Sotha Sil frowned as he entered. Doubt crept into his mind once more, and he couldn’t help but wonder briefly whether the Lady of Dusk and Dawn would respond to their pleas, why the supposed guardian of their race would let them suffer like this.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp sob. One of the peasants, a woman, had doubled over and was weeping into her own knees. Sotha Sil automatically walked over and offered her a scrap of fabric with which to dry her tears; she took it and stared at him with dull eyes, as if not fully understanding the sight of him, murmuring Azura’s name over and over. He put a few coins on the bench beside her and hastily moved on.  

He found the priest in the small study adjacent to the shrine. An elderly mer with sagging ears, the priest had his head bent and was focused on writing a letter, but when Sotha Sil addressed him with a gentle cough he looked up and smiled broadly. “A new face, Sera!” he welcomed Sil in with a beckon, “Azura smiles upon me this day.”

Sotha Sil bowed deeply. “You speak to Sotha Sil of House Sotha, muthsera. Right hand to our Lady Queen Almalexia. Hast thou time?”

“Discard your formality, Sil. Sit, sit. I suspect I know what you seek.”

The priest, with simple Velothi hospitality, started a brew of hackle-lo over a small fire. While Sotha Sil sat politely in a rough-hewn chair, the priest told him all he knew of the woman and her background:

She’d been in Mournhold only a week before giving birth. For the most part she’d appeared to be greatly affected by soul sickness and would shun any attempts to communicate with her. The priest had, with all his gentleness, coaxed from her the fact that she was a Netchiman’s wife, and that she came from the shabby little Vvardenfell village of Bal Fell. This latter fact came as a surprise to Sotha Sil-- Bal Fell was close to Ald Sotha, and it wasn’t uncommon to see the netchimen and fishermen from the smaller settlement peddling their wares in the streets. Beyond these few facts, though, the priest knew little. He hadn’t even been able to get a name from her.

In return for his help, Sotha Sil informed him that the woman’s babe was healthy and very well looked after. The priest, like everyone else in Mournhold, had heard of hir unusual birth and of the Netchiman’s wife’s demise, thou he seemed relieved beyond words to hear of Vehk’s impromptu adoption. The baby, he claimed, had seemed to be the one thing the woman cared about. Many of her ramblings had been about its safety, and her fervent prayers to Azura, when intelligible, had always beseeched that the Daedra keep hir from harm.

“She died for that child.” he remarked, his cup by this point long emptied of its hot brew. “I pray that her sacrifice was worth it.”

The dusk was approaching, so Sotha Sil stood and prepared to dismiss himself, but the priest stopped him by placing a withered hand on his arm.

“I don’t suppose…” he began, head bowed humbly, “You could beseech Lady Almalexia to spare us some funds? We do our best, but charity is difficult to come by in such hard times.”

“I will see it done.” Sotha Sil vowed, sincerely, and he left to the heartfelt thanks of the priest.

It was dark by the time he returned to the castle. His appetite had left him, and so he returned to his chambers, where Sotha Sohleh already sat amongst a pile of letters. He put aside the work when his son returned, and the two sat together while Sotha Sil recounted all he’d learned of the Netchiman’s wife.

“Bal Fell is near Ald Sotha, and very small.” Sotha Sohleh mused, tapping his pen on the table. “I could deliver the child there, and perhaps make some inquiries as to her name. It would save you a trip; somehow, I suspect that you’ll be needed here.”

“When do you plan to leave?”

“Tomorrow.”

Sotha Sil bit his lip. “Almalexia won’t be pleased.”

“Yes, she loves the babe. But we all have our duties. You must console her, and I? I must get some rest.” The elder gathered his notes from the table and stood up. They bid each other goodnight, and Sotha Sil left to give Almalexia the news.

It was only much later (too late, in fact) that he stopped to wonder what the Netchiman’s wife had wanted to keep her child safe _from_.

 

***

 

Almalexia wept without restraint as she bid Vehk goodbye, and Sotha Sil too found himself on the verge of tears as he exchanged his final words with his father. This was the day of Sotha Sohleh’s departure, and as they stood atop Mournhold’s northmost wall there suddenly seemed too much to say. Sotha Sil found himself showering his father with urgent instructions-- (Make sure mother relaxes often; tell Serlyn to stay away from the Dwemer outposts; Kaisa wants a bow for her birthday, please get her one; tell Grandmother I love her…’)-- fighting to keep his voice steady even as his father vowed to uphold every one. The members of House Sotha were reserved, to be true, but the bonds that ran between them were strong as Dwemer steel, and today neither son nor father was embarrassed to make his affection known.

“Ensure that he gets enough sleep.” Almalexia instructed Sotha Sohleh through sobs when he turned to face her. It was odd beyond measure to see the Queen of Mournhold, so powerful and controlled, weeping with heartbreak like this. “I’ve prepared him enough food to last a few days, but… but if you need more I… I’ve written the recipe down… and I have a letter too that she, that he… may read when he’s old enough… An invitation to stay at the castle--” her voice broke off in a sob, and Sotha Sil automatically wrapped an arm around her. Sotha Sohleh, sympathetic, touched her shoulder and vowed on Azura that he would do everything in his power to see little Vehk returned to a safe and happy home.

Almalexia, sniffling, bent her head, and kissed Vehk on the face for what would perhaps be the final time. Vehk seemed to sense that something was amiss, however, and ze began to cry, reaching out for Almalexia’s face even as she lifted the infant away from her breast. She trembled, and Sotha Sil squeezed her arm-- Sotha Sohleh took the child and she instantly buried her face in Sotha Sil’s shoulder, shaking with the force of her sobs. Sotha Sil embraced her and gave his father an apologetic smile.

Vehk was bawling, and Sotha Sohleh took a few moments to attempt to comfort hir before returning his attention to his son. “I have faith in you, Sil.” he said sincerely. “Look after her. She’s almost a daughter to me.”

“And a sister to me.” Sotha Sil replied, giving the weeping Queen a brief squeeze. “She’s in safe hands, father. Just… look after Vehk. And our House. I know I needn’t tell you that, but-- Azura’s grace, all I’ve ever done is for our House. Please don’t let it suffer from my absence.”

“I did alright for the couple centuries before you came along, didn’t I?”

“I guess.” Sotha Sil cracked a pale smile. “Well… farewell, then, Father.”

He let go of Almalexia and trapped his father in a tight embrace. But then Almalexia croaked-- ‘Wait’. She fumbled for a moment, pulling the lavish cloak from her shoulders, only to drape it around Sotha Sohleh’s. “It smells like me.” she explained sheepishly, attempting to smile even through her tears. “Use it to comfort him… her… Vehk, if needs be. And repeat Ayem ae Sehti ae Vehk, you... if you kind of sing it, it soothes her, him... it's a spell from my ancestors, it'll--” She broke off, trembled, and returned her face to Sotha Sil’s shoulder, while Sotha Sohleh dutifully draped the cloak about himself, and Vehk, crying, reached out for the familiar garment.

Then they’d hopped on the Silt Strider, and it was done, they were travelling away from the palace against the sound of Sotha Sohleh shouting goodbyes and Vehk’s still-audible crying. Sotha Sil held Almalexia tight and watched them head northwards until they’d shrunk and disappeared behind vast plantations of saltrice.

They stood like that for a while longer, silent but for Almalexia’s soft sobbing, for what felt like hours. It felt as if eternity had passed when Almalexia pulled back and took a few steps away from him. Sil couldn’t help but keep his eyes on the horizon, searching for some final glimpse of his father, though he knew it was futile now.

“He’ll be fine.” Sotha Sil finally sighed. He tore his gaze away from the road and turned to face Almalexia. “He’ll--”

He fell silent out of sheer surprise. Almalexia had shed her Nordic dress, leaving her in a traditional (if not slightly scandalous) loincloth and midriff-baring blouse. Even as he gawked she was pulling at her hair, freeing it from its stylings so that it could fall loose down her back.

Before Sotha Sil could even _begin_ to ask she’d thrust her discarded garments into his arms. “Hide these.” she ordered him, hastily, her voice still raw with tears. “And then return to the castle. Inform Chemua that I couldn’t bear to part with Vehk so soon and have accompanied your father to Bal Fell. I’ll return in a few days.”

“Ayem,” Sotha Sil croaked, “What in _Oblivion_ \--”

But she’d already dashed off and disappeared into a Guard’s tower, leaving him stunned in his tracks.

 

***

Just like his brother Hoaga, Fenja was a giant of a man, with deep red hair and and a pale face that was quick to flush scarlet in both anger and in joy. He was swift to laugh, swifter to take offense, and he took great pride in his strength, though he couldn’t Shout and had only his sword to boast of as a weapon. When not mingling with his troops or pretending that his title of ‘First Commander’ made him more important than he was, he was in the cornerclub called ‘The Tavern’, drinking and whoring with all the enthusiasm of any young man in a position of power. Tonight the cornerclub was particularly lively; the departure of Sotha Sohleh meant that diplomat shifts were officially done with, and every guard was overjoyed to celebrate the reduced workload. Fenja himself was already a few mugs of shein into the night and sat near a back corner, watching the rabble with half-lidded eyes.

Various tavern-goers and soldiers were gathered around him, and one particularly drunk Nord in the bunch was reciting a limerick of his own invention:

_“There was once a Jarl Chemua_   
_Who was an atrocious n’wah_   
_He drank too much ale_   
_His common sense failed_   
_And he woke up married to a guar!”_

The table burst out hollering and laughing, but Fenja remained unimpressed.

“Bah!” He slammed his empty mug on the table. “N’wah! I hate that elf talk! The only good elf’s one that’s getting fucked, and I mean that either way!”

“More drink, milord?” A honey-skinned mer sidled up to him, one of the whores they called a daughter of Mephala. He took the mug from her and continued his rant as her hand slid across his chest.

“I’ll say this-- you got one thing right, that Jarl Chemua’s as like to marry a guar as he is to grow a beard. Damned elf-loving bastard. Why, if I were to challenge him...”

“Oh, you can’t be so hard on the lad.” One of the soldiers chuckled. “He’s certainly got a good pick. Have you seen that pretty Queen? If I had her at my disposal I’d be a tad soft myself.”

“I’d be anything but soft.” Someone else replied, and the whole table dissolved into laughter.

“No true Nord would let their loyalties be swayed by some Bitch-Whore.” Fenja spat and bared his teeth in disgust. He was rather drunk already, his vision clouding with fury, and he found his spare hand on the hilt of his sword. He could easily teach these traitors a lesson, he thought vaguely. Take out his anger…  

“You’re tense, milord.” the whore still had her hand on his chest and she cooed at him sweetly. “Vent your anger?”

He glanced at her-- she was a little on the plump side, but acceptable, and he was sick of the low-bred soldiers. He spat once more at the table and then let her lead him away, up the narrow stairway and to where a few rooms were set aside for business of this sort. She guided him to the one at the end of the hall. It was small, but furnished with furs and vases in an emulation of Skyrim’s fashions, not at all like the sparse, stingy Velothi decorations that most cornerclubs had. Fenja hummed in approval, while the whore closed the door and stripped herself of her clothes.

She wasn’t as lean as an elf usually was, and looked younger than the usual fare of the cornerclubs, but she was was eager enough to make up for her flaws, so Fenja didn’t protest as she unfastened his overcoat and pulled the heavy garment from his shoulders. Her hands were a little unsteady, he noted, and that made him chuckle. “First time?”

“I’ve been saving myself for you.” she replied sweetly as she slid the shirt from his body.

She moved to kiss him, but Fenja pushed her away, forcing her head lower. She didn't protest and he leaned his head forwards to watch, growling in approval while her wet lips trailed from his neck and down his chest. Her hands rested on his buttocks, her mouth dragged a path down his belly, and when she reached his hips he put a hand on her head.

“Don’t see many elves with red hair.” he murmured.

The whore looked up and smiled sweetly. “Close your eyes, serjo.”

He did so, tilting his head back as her hands slid down his legs. Her lips reached his already straining breeches, her hand caressed his waistband, so hot and so close--

The sword was in his chest before he had time to realize that he was dead.

Fenja fell to the ground with a strangled cry, but Almalexia was on top of him, ramming the sword into his chest repeatedly until it had been reduced to a mess of flesh and meat. Once she was certain of his death she stood, and stabbed him once more before aiming a kick at his head for good measure. _Bitch-whore indeed_. She spat and turned away from the corpse.

Deed done, she stooped and gathered her clothes from the floor, getting dressed as calmly as could be despite the copious amount of blood smeared across her skin. The tavern below was raucous still, which made things difficult; she needed to wait until someone came upstairs if this plan was to work. Fully clothed now, she picked up Fenja’s sword and pressed her ear to the door, listening closely.

It wasn’t long before the sound of giggling drew close. Perfect. She took a deep breath.

“GET AWAY FROM ME!” Her shout was loud enough to pierce even the racket below. “DON’T TOUCH ME, YOU MONSTER!”  She waited until she heard someone running, then flung open the door, dropped the sword, and fled through the cornerclub as fast as she could.

She bolted from the cornerclub and into the street, and continued running until her lungs burned and her legs felt like they would give out. She slowed to a stop, wheezing for breath, and quickly glanced around to make sure she hadn’t been pursued. She hadn’t, and so she continued in a hasty walk until she reached the wall between East and Palace districts and could slip into the safety of a tiny guard’s station.

Heigl was waiting for her inside as arranged, arms crossed anxiously, and the moment Almalexia slipped into the tiny chambers she lurched forwards with a gasp. “Lady Almalexia! There you are! Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. Did you bring the tunic?”

“Aye, and the helm, too, so you should....” The Nord trailed off. “Is that blood?”

“It’s not mine, don’t worry.” Almalexia took the tunic from Heigl’s arms and pulled it over her bloodied clothes. Heigl had gone pale.

“By the Gods, you murdered him, didn’t you? Oh, Kyne have mercy…” Heigl uttered, covering her mouth in horror. Almalexia ignored her concern.

“You didn’t expect me to ask him nicely to let you be First Commander, did you?”

“Gods, girl, what’ve you done?”

“What I had to do.” Having donned the tunic, Almalexia took the guard’s helm and met Heigl’s eyes with her own. “We are of Morrowind, Commander. Our ways are deceit and murder. If I am to be its Queen, I must do what is best for it… and if you are truly of this land, you will understand, and furthermore, you will obey me.”

Heigl quailed and took a shaky breath, then nodded, stammering. “V… very well. My Queen. Thine wish art mine command.”

Almalexia smiled and slipped the helm over her head. “You are a loyal servant and a good friend, Heigl. I’ll see you well rewarded for this. Now return before you’re missed. Hurry. There will be a fuss over Fenja’s death and you must lead the investigation. I’ll return in a couple of days.”

She gave Heigl a brief embrace and then slipped back into the street. In the distance she could already hear the vague sounds of a commotion. There was nothing like a good plot and a scandalous murder to invigorate the Chimer; these next few days would be lively indeed, and Almalexia had no doubt that there’d be opportunity aplenty to spread an innocent rumor, that a whore had slain First Commander Fenja when he tried to attack her. It wasn’t so hard to lay low in Mournhold.

Chemua would never know a thing.

 

 

***

 

“I’ve told you,” Sotha Sil repeated, for perhaps the twentieth time that day. “She went to Bal Fell with my father. It’s a three day journey at minimum.”

That answer only seemed to anger Chemua further. The Nord was pacing around the room like a caged lion, a deep grimace marring his face. Since news of Fenja’s death he’d been restless, furious and paranoid in unpredictable turns. Even Sotha Sil, who could maintain the illusion of patience better than most, was beginning to look a little frayed by this erratic behavior.

“And she couldn’t have sneaked back? Or stayed in the city?”

“I would be surprised. She was truly upset to part with Vehk. I watched her leave with my father.” Sotha Sil shrugged. “I tell you true, serjo. She had nothing to do with it.”

Chemua snorted in disbelief and muttered an obscenity before turning to Second Commander Heigl. Heigl met his stare, though her expression betrayed a very blatant unease, and Sotha Sil felt a brief pang of pity for the obviously uncomfortable Nord.

“I’ve told you time and time again.” Heigl reported with a helpless shrug of her own. “We spoke with the witnesses. From what we can make of it he tried to attack a whore and got the business end of his own blade.”

“Have you been able to find the whore?”

“Nay, sir. By all accounts she fled and hasn’t been seen since. I’d wager she’s halfway to Vvardenfell by now.”

Chemua, glowering, mulled over the information. “What’d she look like?”

“Daughter of Mephala. Red hair--” catching the expression on Chemua’s face, she hastened to add, “But any elf with a Nord pa has red hair, it ent uncommon to see.”

“Are you trying to defend her, Second Commander?”

“Nay, sir. I just think you’re looking in the wrong place here. Lady Almalexia murdered no-one.”

Chemua scowled and started pacing again, long strides carrying him back and forth while his interrogation subjects watched. “Damn her!” he exclaimed abruptly, and his voice shook the masonry. “I just know she had something to do with this. I know the stink of conspiracy when I sniff it. The next time I see her--”

His line of thought was interrupted by the soft _whoosh_ of a recall spell. Suddenly Almalexia was standing before the throne, her red hair dishevelled and wearing a new Velothi robe that’d been crumpled by travel. She looked mildly surprised to have interrupted a meeting, but her expression soon shifted to a smile and she dipped into a bow towards Chemua. “My Jarl. Come to welcome me home?”

“Something of that sort.” Chemua replied gruffly. Sotha Sil, glad though he was to see Almalexia unharmed, forced himself to shift his gaze instead to Heigl. She was watching the two with a carefully controlled expression, but her face was pale as a sheet, and she looked as if she were about to faint. Chemua wasn’t just paranoid, then. There was undoubtedly something suspicious going on here. Boethiah’s shadow was on the walls.

“Fenja?!” Almalexia’s cry caught him off guard. She was staring at Chemua aghast, both hands pressed to her mouth in shock. “Oh, no… How awful. How truly awful. I was infatuated with him when he first came to Mournhold. Is he truly dead? What sad news… my heart breaks to hear it.”

“Sad news.” Chemua agreed solemnly. “Heigl Ash-Helm, the new First Commander, has been looking into it. If you happen to know any details…” the air thrummed with energy at that word, “let her know.” Almalexia nodded, though her head was still bowed, as if she were gravely upset. Heigl seemed on the verge of collapse.

“Permission to leave?” Sotha Sil decided to interrupt them, stepping forwards. “Lady Almalexia and I both, that is. I wish to hear what she has to say of my father, and of Vehk’s home-to-be. And, frankly speaking, I think she could use a shower.”

“Permission granted.” Chemua said, slowly, but he watched them with the caution of a nix-hound as they left the room.

Sotha Sil didn’t speak until they’d reached Almalexia’s chambers. She, too, said nothing, as if she could sense his frustration, and when they came to her chambers she simply alighted lightly on her bed and fixed her eyes on him, waiting for him to speak first. It was a few moments before Sil finally brought himself to voice the accusation:

“You murdered Fenja.”

“I did.” Almalexia agreed plainly.

“Why?”

“Because I needed the Guild of Shouts on my side, and Fenja hated me.”

“Why did you not tell me of this plan beforehand?”

“Would you have let me go through with it?”

Sotha Sil exhaled and sat down next to her, close enough that their arms were touching. For a long while they sat like that, each absorbed in their own private thoughts, taking solace from the close contact.

“Why am I here?” Sotha Sil finally asked.

“To be my counsellor.” Almalexia told him in reply. “And my friend.”

“Do you trust my counsel?”

That made her laugh, softly. “Is that what this about, Seht? I’ve offended you? Very well, then. What would you counsel me?”

“Well…” Sotha Sil turned to her, expression serious. “Heigl is loyal, but you cannot depend on her alone. Win the soldier’s love yourself. You’re a capable fighter and once you prove that you are not above training with them they will be yours. Secondly, Heigl has told me the guild lacks for soldiers. I think we should permit Chimer to enlist.”

Almalexia was silent for a moment, her expression betraying surprise. “... That would give me the upper hand…” she finally murmured. “If we could play up the threat that the Dwemer and the Argonians pose, and emphasize the need for more non-House allied soldiers, Chemua could be persuaded to permit it. And it would help those who are impoverished to earn a fair wage. Our people have suffered under the Nords. They’d love me for it…”

The sun set over Mournhold, casting the pale buildings in hues of gentle gold before it finally sunk below the horizon and yielded the city to nighttime’s gentle care. Sotha Sil and Almalexia stayed up far into the night, Queen and counsellor in the throes of conspiracy, making plans with the delicacy of the Webspinner themselves, and the future of Morrowind seemed to paint itself across their whispered words.

Across the inner sea, the Grandmaster of House Sotha offered a child to a weeping widower known in Bal Fell only as the Netchiman. Words of solace and thanks were exchanged, but sparsely, and then Sotha Sohleh, eager to return home, made his hasty departure. Bal Fell had fallen into evening’s darkness, and the Netchiman was unseen as he returned with his crying child to a small hut, where he fell to his knees and wept with thanks at the shrine of Molag Bal.

 

* * *

     _'I am the Face-Snaked Queen of the Three in One. In you is an image and a seven-syllable spell, AYEM AE SEHTI AE VEHK, which you will repeat to it until mystery comes.'_

 

 


	3. III

_1E404, Sun's Height._

_Eight years after Queen Almalexia's coronation._

_Then Ayem threw the netchiman's wife into the ocean water where dreughs took her into castles of glass and coral. They gifted the netchiman's wife with gills and milk fingers, changing her sex so that she might give birth to the image as an egg. There she stayed for seven or eight months._

* * *

 

The throne room was dim, a little cold, and utterly silent. Almalexia sat still as a statue in her throne, moving only her eyes to follow the Nord as he paced silently from one wall to the other. He was the Jarl of Mournhold and a fearsome man, massive in stature, with a beard the length of his chest and a silent brewing temper as unpredictable as an ash-storm. But he was also getting old, she decided to herself as she watched him pace. The weak light made his wrinkles stand out.

“So you’ve sent away your pet.” Chemua spoke at last. His voice made the floor rumble, an effect to which Almalexia had long grown accustomed.

"I didn't send him away.” she corrected him. “He left to oversee House Sotha’s divorce with Great House Telvanni. It was his own choice to leave, and though I sent him with my blessings I played no part in the decision."

"I see." Chemua’s restless pacing continued. "I don't suppose he's running some errand? Making some arrangement?"

"None, sera."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"I believe you're paranoid."

Chemua halted and turned to face her. She met his gaze with ease, her head held high, and there was even a soft smile on her lips. They’d been engaged in this delicate dance since her coronation nearly eight years ago, the artful and subtle power struggle that swept them around the city like a waltzing couple. But slowly, surely as the setting sun, she was winning. They both knew it.

Chemua resumed pacing again. "Aye. You’ve nothing up your sleeve, nor have you ever. Your little military expeditions, for instance-- they involve no plots."

"I love sword-fighting, and the Guild of Shouts make excellent sparring partners."

"And allowing elves to enlist?"

"We needed the men."

"Your little deals with the treasurer, the ones you think I don't know about?"

"Charity work. The funds we raise from taxes have been used to better the lives of all our citizens. Mournhold has never known such happiness and prosperity."

"And the fact that you've been sleeping your way around half the damned court to make it so?"

Almalexia laughed. "What can I say? We Chimer are... promiscuous."

It was difficult for her not to gloat at the ease with which she pulled the strings. She sat back so that she could lounge in her grand throne, regarding him with a smile that was bordering on smug. Chemua had stopped pacing now, but he didn't look any less furious; he bore the frustration of a powerless man in his aging face.

"Watch yourself, little elf." he growled, the masonry shuddering. "You're getting cocky."

"I'm a Queen. We're entitled to a little bit of arrogance. You would enjoy this power all the same, would you not?"

And, to Almalexia's surprise, Chemua chuckled at that, a low and ominous sound.

"We shall see."

 

***

 

The air of the Inner Sea was warm and a little muggy, and it left the tang of salt perpetually on the tongue and in the nostrils. It might’ve been cloying to an outsider, or someone unfamiliar with the sea, but Sotha Sil was neither, and from where he stood at the prow of the ship he could taste the sunlight and the hint of ash carried by the wind as plain as day. His hair was loose, his face and chest being steadily soaked with spray-- it was utter bliss. For a moment he had the boyish urge to tear off his clothes and dive straight into the water.

Eight years. It had been eight years since he last tasted the sea. Never again would he go so long without it.

They were bound for the fishing village of Bal Fell, and then on to Ald Sotha, where he'd reuinte with his family and help orchestrate House Sotha's divorce from the increasingly unreliable Great House Telvanni. Long ago he’d told Almalexia that his duty was to his House and he’d meant it. With the growing political strife and the chance of backlash from the scorned Great House, he’d finally been able to pry himself away from Mournhold's court and return to the village, not a moment too soon for his homesick heart.

In the distance the outmost fringes of Vvardenfell were already visible-- soft green islands and the jagged teeth of southmost Azura’s Coast coated in velvet vermillion moss, all framed against the magnificent backdrop of Red Mountain. With eyes closed Sotha Sil could picture the sea-floor beneath them, the fringes of coral that stood strong amongst forests of swaying seaweed, the slaughterfish that preyed on magnificent blue shoals of fish, and the dreugh foragers that chased them with their chitin-spears while playing their dangerous cat-and-mouse courtships with House Sotha’s wax-catchers. Mournhold had its grandeur, yes, but the finest building in all of Morrowind could never even begin to approach the sheer natural beauty of southern Vvardenfell, Ald Sotha’s glittering tranquility.

Sotha Sil knew that if they continued due north they would arrive at his childhood home within a few hours, and he keenly longed to do so, but Almalexia had extorted from him a promise before he left that necessitated postponing his return a few days longer. The slow creak of a turning mast echoed across the deck and called Sil’s attention to the only other occupant of the boat, a grim and mute fishermer with a somewhat ominous appearance. He certainly presented an unsettling addition to the otherwise paradisiacal scene, but Sotha Sil wasn’t picky by nature and would settle for the transport.

“Any news of Bal Fell?” Sotha Sil called out. Predictably, there was no reply, and so the wizard returned to the boat’s prow and closed his eyes, yielding himself to nostalgia once more. Whatever sense of unease this situation brought him was far outweighed by the longing to set foot on his House’s ancestral soil. The sea-breeze was sweet in his nostrils, and if he strained to hear it seemed almost as if he could hear the distant background noise of the town. Such a thing would be impossible, of course, but the thought was nice and he allowed himself to become lost in recollections.

When he next opened his eyes he found himself looking at a Daedric shrine.

It wasn’t a wholly unusual sight-- a smaller structure of its exact sort sat in the middle of Ald Sotha-- but the fact that it stood on Bal Fell was certainly unexpected. This wasn’t the shrine of any civilized mer, either. It looked as if it had sprung from the island like a weed; its structure was hulking and overgrown, an ugly ruin of broken tendrils and jagged walls that protruded cancerously from the land. A hideous sight even from afar, Sotha Sil thought with unease.

He turned around with a question on his tongue, only to be immediately quieted by the expression on the fishermer’s face. Conclusions clicked together like cogs in Sotha Sil’s mind and he turned mutely back to the prow.

As the ship made its slow way closer to the island it became all too painfully clear that this was, infact, the former fishing village of Bal Fell. The wreckage of huts and houses protruded from the erratic spread of the masonry, half-burned and sagging with rot; behind the salty sea-breeze one could detect the faint smell of rotten flesh.

A small jetty extended from the ruins, and it was this that the boat aligned itself against. The silent fishermer grabbed a rope and vaulted over the edge, setting about the task of mooring the craft to the shore. Sotha Sil himself remained at his place near the prow, his eyes fixed on the monstrous shrine. There was horror in his gut and he found himself wondering how long this had been here, and how House Sotha could allow such an evil structure to overtake one of their own settlements, how long ago this had happened. He turned around--

And the fishermer plunged a dagger in his shoulder.

Sotha Sil jerked back and automatically discharged a lightning bolt into the fishermer’s chest. He was thrust away and Sotha Sil seized the opportunity, casting a second lightning bolt that pierced the assailant through. He fell, seizing violently, and Sotha Sil quickly rammed a foot into his torso, casting a final ball of fire that ended the man’s life in an instant. The whole ordeal was over in a few seconds, and Sotha Sil found himself standing numb with shock over the singed corpse.

Momentarily he became aware that the hilt of the knife was still protruding from his shoulder, and that he couldn’t move his right arm at all. Pain flooded him; he stumbled back and slid to a sitting position against the side of the boat. He braced himself, sucked in a deep breath, then wrenched the blade from his flesh, unable to stifle a sharp cry of pain. A second’s rest, and then he pressed his working hand to the blood-sodden wound and closed his eyes, pouring all his magika and concentration into the delicate task of knitting tendon and flesh together.

By the time his magika reserves ran out he’d managed to heal all but the shallowest parts of the wound. It was still bleeding, but not dangerously so, so he allowed himself to collapse and let both hands fall useless by his side, momentarily exhausted by the effort.

It was a while before he mustered the energy to move again. When he’d regained a steady heartbeat he dragged himself to his feet and cast a wary glance along the ship. The corpse of the fishermer was still lying on the deck; Sotha Sil approached and crouched next to it, searching the corpse briefly for any objects of note. In the pocket was his payment and the key to the lower deck of the boat, inconspicuous in themselves-- but when Sil pulled back the rough-hewn shirt he was greeted with the dread-inducing sight of intentional mutilation. He’d seen the sort only once before, as a child, when a Molag Bal worshipper had been discovered in Ald Sotha and his corpse hung out as a warning.

So this is who’d taken over his family’s ward-village. Sotha Sil felt bile rise in his throat. With his magika exhausted he didn’t dare explore the complex itself, but a mixture of curiosity and dread forced him to step off of the boat and investigate the nearest ruined huts. His dread only grew as he picked his way through ransacked buildings, through broken skeletons and wanton devastation, through remnants of what had once been a small and lively village.

In one hut he came across the tiny, broken bones of an infant. He gave up the search entirely and retreated to the ship.

Neither he nor Almalexia had mentioned Vehk in the years since the child had been sent off. Sotha Sohleh’s first letter from home had mentioned that ze was reunited with his father; after that no news had made its way to Mournhold, and Almalexia hadn’t asked, so focused as she was on suffocating her emotions in the fervor of her work. Sotha Sil wondered how she’d react to hear of the infant’s death, if she’d weep with the passionate emotion of the new-crowned Queen or simply react with the quiet acknowledgement of the seasoned monarch. He wondered whether he should tell her of this at all.

The fishermer’s key opened a small hatch in the deck of the ship, and beneath the deck lay a rudimentary bedroom, complete with a hammock and a day or so’s worth of provisions stashed in a chest. The sun was setting now, and with no boating experience and no remaining magika Sotha Sil would have no choice but to spend the night. Back on the deck he arranged a small pile of wood from the nearby huts and, with his own bloodied shirt as tinder, used the last of his magika to start a fire so that he could cook a porridge of saltrice for dinner. The macabre events of the day were weighing heavy on his soul and he found himself murmuring a prayer to Azura as dusk yielded to night.

But later on, even as he settled to sleep between two creaking walls and the musty smell of a boat’s lower deck, he found himself recalling his trip to Azura’s Chantry eight years prior, when the tendrils of doubt had first crept into his mind.

 

When he awoke, he was no longer alone.

He first became aware of the sound of rummaging. The hatch to the deck was open and in the thin moonlight he could partially see a small and hunched figure, the top half of its body hidden as it rifled through the chest. In the dim light it looked almost like an oversized scamp, or some other humanoid daedra, certainly not like anything one would want in their sleeping quarters. Sotha Sil inhaled a breath, then slowly sat up and readied a fireball in one hand. With the other he cast a magelight.

The room flooded with light. The creature, in response, immediately shrieked and dove for a corner. It was a child, Sotha Sil realized immediately-- a Chimer, still young, clad only in a loincloth and a mop of soaking hair that partially obscured hir wide and frightened eyes. Ze was clutching a spear, and as Sotha Sil watched ze held the weapon in front of hirself in a way that even he could tell was comically ineffective. Ze was far too young to be a threat to him, and so Sotha Sil relaxed immediately and extinguished the fireball, extending a hand.

“I won’t harm you.” he said gently. The child just stared at him, so Sotha Sil spoke again, keeping his voice soft. “Where did you come from?”

The child, pressing hirself into the corner, babbled something in a language that was unintelligible but not unfamiliar. It took a moment for Sotha Sil to realize where he’d heard the language before-- it was Dreughic, the derivative of Aldmeris spoken by the dreugh. Sotha Sil knew the dialect, though he was clumsy and out of practice, so he switched tongue and spoke again:

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

This time the child seemed to understand, and ze replied curtly: “I took your feet.”

This made Sotha Sil pause with confusion, so the child clarified. “I cut off your feet. You can’t get me.” Sotha Sil glanced down at his prosthetic legs-- the feet had indeed been removed, dropped next to the hammock. He calmly reached down and reattached them, which seemed to alarm the child, for ze cringed back against the wall and jabbed uselessly in Sil’s direction with hir spear.

“My legs are metal.” Sil explained in an attempt to soothe hir. He couldn’t help but feel pity for the child-- ze was tiny and couldn’t be older than eight. “Do you live on the island?”

“I live in the palace of glass and coral.” The child replied. “I am the netchiman’s wife. I live with the dreugh. Who’re you?”

Sotha Sil disregarded the cryptic answer. “My name is Sotha Sil.”

“... Seht?”

And then the child did something altogether unexpected: ze dropped hir spear and darted forwards. Pausing at the side of the hammock, the apprehensive creature took a pouch from under hir loincloth and offered it meekly forwards. Sotha Sil took it and ze darted back, still-wary, but there was something like hope in hir wide eyes as ze explained in dreugh-babble: “I was told to wait for you. Ayem ae Sehti ae Vehk. It’s a spell. Are you Seht?”

Sotha Sil numbly opened the pouch. Inside was the ruins of what might have once been paper long-dissolved by sea water; all that remained was a sorry wax lump, in the distorted but unmistakeable shape of Mournhold’s crest. Sotha Sil stared at it for a long moment before slowly lifting his eyes.

“... Vehk?”

The child was grinning now, though ze’d retreated to hir corner and was crouching like an animal. “Ayem ae Sehti ae Vehk!” ze repeated happily. “You’re truly Seht?”

“I… I am.”

“The netchiman told me about you, you’re Ayem’s brother. That paper told him, Ayem brought me here and cast that spell. Although,” hir face crinkled, “You don’t look like a monster. I thought you’d be scarier. Are you evil?”

Sotha Sil weakly shook his head. “I don’t think so--”

“You didn’t wake when I took your feet. How?”

“They’re not my real legs. They’re metal. I can’t feel them.”

“Where’d your real legs go? Did they walk away without you? Was it because you’re evil?”

The child was grinning still, bouncing up and down as ze spoke, and Sil was reminded of his own younger siblings, though this one was far more talkative than any Sotha child. He looked back down at the wax seal-- could this truly be Vehk? It seemed impossible, and yet the proof was in his hands, and in the energetic orphan that babbled away in Dreughic even as Sil pondered.

“I’m grown up now, I wasn’t grown up when I lived on land. But even when I wasn’t grown up I don’t remember taking off my legs. Can all land people do that? Is it just you? How’d your legs run away? That wasn’t smart. Can I touch them? Will they zap me? The Queen of the Dreugh says I must stay away from things that zap--”

Sotha Sil interrupted hir. “Are you truly Vehk?”

The child fell silent, considering the question with an odd expression. “I am a netchiman’s wife.” ze finally answered. “But maybe, once, there was a Vehk. Inside of me, with the spell. Ayem ae Sehti ae Vehk.”

More crypticism. Sotha Sil shrugged it off for the moment, it was the only proof he needed for the conviction that already gripped his heart. Questions overwhelmed him already, all too morbid to burden such a small child with, so he instead chose a simpler one: “Why were you looking through my things?”

“For supplies.” the child answered sagely. “The dreugh love land people food. I take it from the shrine. Do you have some?”

“I do have some saltrice porridge. Are you hungry?”

“What’s porridge?”

Sotha Sil had three younger siblings, and that wasn’t even counting the various first cousins and second cousins and retainer children that he’d been expected to care for over the years, and so he was instinctively accustomed to looking after younger mer. Little Vehk, for all the strangeness of their circumstances, seemed quite content to babble in hir half-intelligible Dreughic while Sil reheated and served the remainders of his dinner, and even after Sil had reassured hir that warm things could be eaten ze insisted on speaking through every mouthful.

“What’re those things? The things in the sky?”

“They’re called stars.”

“What are they?”

“Nobody quite knows-- some people think that they’re holes leading to Aetherius.”

“What’s Aetherius?”

“It’s a realm beyond ours--”

“What’s a realm?”

And so it went. Little Vehk was very talkative, proving to be both highly intelligent and highly curious, and though the dreughic dialect was limited and Sil’s grasp of it rusty, Vehk was clever enough to figure out the meaning of Aldmeris words when Sotha Sil substituted them in. Ze pestered Sil with questions, receiving one answer only to immediately ask for another, and they must’ve sat on the deck for an hour or more as Vehk asked questions about the surface world until ze was yawning.

“Why do you have hair on your chin?”

“Because it grows there.” Sotha Sil explained patiently. By this point Vehk was curled up in a ball, hir knees held against hir chest and speaking between stifled yawns. Before ze could voice their next question Sil decided to cut the conversation short. “Vehk, you live near here, don’t you?”

Vehk nodded. “About an hour’s swim, with the dreugh in their coral castle.”

“Do you want to stay here?”

That made the orphan pause, and ze watched Sotha Sil for several moments before slowly, uncertainly, shaking hir head. “I… I want to stay with you. May I? I waited for you so long...”

Sotha Sil found himself smiling softly and he nodded. “I was hoping you would say that; of course you may. But it’s late, and we should sleep. Come.”

He lead the yawning child back down below the deck. He’d been about to offer Vehk the hammock, but the child had already retreated to hir corner and curled up like a cat, seemingly content to perch there. Sotha Sil decided not to push it and returned to his hammock.

But barely a moment after he’d settled in there was the sound of footsteps, and suddenly a bony body was draped over his chest. He looked down and found Vehk making hirself comfy on top of him, thin arms wrapped around his torso and hir small face pressed to his bare shoulder. The child’s skin had an odd texture, and Sil realized that it was covered in dreugh wax, the waterproofing substance some members of his House used when spending long periods of time beneath the sea. Perhaps ‘living with the dreugh’ hadn’t been a metaphor after all.

Vehk mumbled something into his chest and Sotha Sil had to strain to hear it.

“I said,” Vehk said meekly, “Must I marry you?”

“What?”

“If I’m living with you. Will I be your wife?”

There was something in the way ze said it that made Sotha Sil uneasy. He quickly shook his head and wrapped his arms around the child. “No, no. You’re more like… my brother. Or my sister?”

“Your brothersister?”

“... Sure.” That seemed to satisfy Vehk, for ze grinned and snuggled up against Sil, dropping immediately into sleep, and Sotha Sil dozed off soon after.

 

***

 

“What is the meaning of this?”

Almalexia was a Chimer and no wielder of the thu’um, but the barely-restrained rage in her voice seemed to make the room shake all the same. Chemua remained utterly unfazed by her fury.

“A new tax.” he replied simply. “A 40 percent levy on all crops and income raised by the saltrice farmers.”

“Are you soul-sick?!” Almalexia snapped. “They’ll never be able to afford this! You’re going to drive them to ruin!”

Chemua shrugged his massive soldiers and Almalexia found herself gripped with the sudden urge to sock him in the face. “Your charity activities have put a certain strain on our funds.” he explained, nonchalant.

“And you dare punish the same people I’m trying to help?!”

“As Jarl, I do dare.”

This time it was Chemua who stood motionless and smug; Almalexia was unable to stop herself from pacing with the muted fury of a storm, back and forth across the room.

“You’ll never be able to enforce it!” she announced, abruptly, with a clipped laugh of triumph. “The Shouts wouldn’t dare. Half of them have families that are farmers. They love the populace like I do, they wouldn’t ruin their own kin!”

Chemua’s smug smile broadened. “That won’t be a problem. Hoaga has loaned me… specially selected soldiers for the task.”

That stopped her in her tracks. “What?”

“I’ve also made sure to restrict the treasurer’s movements.” Chemua continued in a casual drawl. “All fund allocation must now be authorized by myself. I felt as if he were becoming… unfairly biased.”

Almalexia was staring at him, all semblance of proper conduct momentarily forgotten-- her mouth hung open like a stunned fish, and her hands were clutched into fists that seemed to be longing for a dagger.

Then she composed herself and squared her shoulders, narrowing her eyes.

“We shall see.” And with that, she strutted, haughty, from the room.

 

***

 

By the time the sun rose over the horizon Vehk was wide awake again, and while waiting for Sotha Sil to awaken ze’d set hirself the task of probing every corner of the ship with a child’s unbridled curiosity. When Sotha Sil finally did wake he found that the cabin had mysteriously accumulated a stash of rope, rigging, seaweed, and a good portion of his own luggage. Vehk hirself was perched proudly atop the collection, examining a book.

“What’s this?”

Sotha Sil sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “That’s a book. Don’t get it wet.”

“What does it do?”

“It carries information.”

“Where’s the information go?”

“It doesn’t quite--”

“How do I use it?”

“Not like that.”

“Should I eat it? To hear the knowledge?”

“... Let’s find something for breakfast.”

Vehk, for all hir annoying questions, turned out to be useful in hir own ways. While Sotha Sil was struggling to dredge up enough saltrice for a decent meal, Vehk disappeared overboard with hir spear, only to return a few minutes later with two slaughterfish neatly skewered on its tip. Sotha Sil re-ignited the fire from last night and cooked the fish while Vehk continued hir almost constant stream of dialogue. Ze was particularly pleased with hir discoveries onboard the ship, including the ‘secret treasure’ (Sotha Sil’s luggage) and ‘wetting for Milk Finger’ (Milk Finger was the name of Vehk’s spear, which had been freshly polished with the dreugh wax from Sil’s alchemical kit). Sotha Sil listened without qualm, nodding idly along. A part of him knew that eventually he’d have to press for real answers and probably unpleasant ones; for now he was more than happy to let Vehk prattle on about the novelties of the ship.

Once breakfast was done, Sotha Sil donned a spare rob and got to work gathering up his scattered luggage. Ald Sotha was only a couple hour’s walk from Bal Fell if one went directly over the water; a water-walking spell and a strategic feather would make the trip an easy one. Vehk had grown bored of talking at that point and switched to wandering after Sotha Sil, pestering him with a seemingly random series of questions.

“Can you fly?”

“With magic, yes.”

“Oh. What’s magic?”

“It’s a universal force, contained within the soul of every mortal, and we can use it--”

“What’s a soul?”

“Think of it as a bastion of energy inside of us. It’s what enables us to live.”

“Where is it?”

“Pardon?”

“The Queen of the Dreugh used to cut up fishermen and she never found any energy. Where do you keep it? In your pants?”

Sotha Sil didn’t have an answer for that, but his expression must have been priceless, because Vehk burst out laughing and nearly fell overboard.

By the time everything was ready to go the sun had risen high above the horizon and the air was warm and crisp. The glittering blue sea and lush greenery of the surrounding islands was almost enough to make them forget about the grotesque tower covering the island behind them, and a strong sea breeze swept away the scent of decay entirely. Sotha Sil put the final feather charm on his luggage-trunk, cast a waterwalking spell on himself, and turned to Vehk, who was perched on the side of the ship and watching him with fascination.

“I’m going to cast a spell on you.” Sotha Sil told hir. “It’s going to feel odd, like your feet are made of air. Close your eyes.”

“Um--”

Sotha Sil readied the spell, reached out-- but Vehk flinched and dove away. The spell diffused against the side of the ship, and Sotha Sil felt someone climbing up his back, coming to rest with its legs tight around his waist and its arms around his neck.

“Don’t touch my feet.” Vehk squeaked against the back of Sotha Sil’s head. Sotha Sil simply nodded and started walking.

For a while they walked in silence. The waves underfoot were as soft as any grass to the wizard, and even with the horrid scene they were leaving behind it was hard not to feel at peace on the surface of the water. Vehk had been trembling at first, but hir fear gradually gave way to curiosity and then to awe, and before long the child was looking around in wordless fascination. Sotha Sil wondered if ze’d had much prior experience with magic. Something told him ze hadn’t.

“Vehk?” Sotha Sil spoke up after a while.

“I’m not Vehk.” Vehk corrected him. “I am the netchiman’s wife.”

“Ah… of course.” A moment’s pause. “How long have you been with the dreugh?”

“Since I got thrown into the ocean. That was…. two? Uh, three years ago.”

“Can you tell me what happened before that? And who threw you into the ocean?”

Vehk fell silent for a long while, so long that Sotha Sil feared he’d upset the child. But ze eventually replied in a soft and matter-of-fact voice:

“I was the netchiman’s wife. I lived with the netchiman.” A small shudder ran through hir. “Then, um. Then Molag Bal came and took everyone into the shrine. There were lots of soldiers in black and red armor. And I don’t remember, but I think… Ayem threw me into the ocean so I'd be safe. And then the dreugh took me into their big glass and coral castle, and they gave me Milk Finger, and my gills…” Vehk fell silent and Sotha Sil felt hir rummaging around-- a moment later a small hand shoved an amulet in front of his face. “My gills! Also, they changed me into a girl. I think? I don’t know the difference between boys and girls. They all look the same to me.”

Sotha Sil took the amulet and turned it about in his hands in surprise-- it was one of the waterbreathing charms used by House Sotha for underwater fishing trips. Vehk was happily continuing hir story.

“So I lived with them but I didn’t forget you, Seht. Ayem ae Sehti ae Vehk. The netchiman read me the letter from Ayem and I never forgot it. And I just knew you would come! I’ve been waiting and now here you are.” Vehk hummed, tapping hir feet against Sotha Sil’s thighs happily.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier.” Sotha Sil murmured. “By Azura, she-- Ayem wouldn’t have wanted this. I’m so sorry. Bal Fell was meant to be under House Sotha’s protection. My Father has a lot to answer for.”

Vehk seemed unbothered by the apology. “What’s a father?”

They talked amiably as they walked, and Sotha Sil told Vehk of Ald Sotha and his family. Vehk had never seen another mer child before, it seemed, and ze listened raptly while Sotha Sil recounted stories of his younger siblings. It seemed like no time at all passed before the shrine to Azura came into view, followed by the small but sturdy huts that clustered around it, and then all of Ald Sotha was visible against the dramatic of Red Mountain.

It was one of his cousins that noticed him first, a fishermer standing waist-deep in the tide. She pointed him out to her partner, and her partner called out the news to the second cousin on the shore, and that cousin notified the nearby Grand Retainer, who spread word to one of Sotha Sohleh’s own children, so that by the time Sotha Sil drew close to the town there was already a small crowd waiting to greet him. The moment he raised his hand to wave someone broke away from the crowd, followed by another, and within a moment he found himself trapped in the tight embrace of his two younger siblings.

“Eight years!” Kaisa sobbed into his shoulder. Serlyn punched him in the chest and pulled away, but he was grinning too, and Sotha Sil found himself actually laughing, exclaiming to them how much they were grown, gods, his baby siblings were both adults now, what had happened? And then he was being dragged to the crowd, and it seemed like the whole House had turned out to meet him, with how many people were there and how enthusiastically he was being welcomed back.

He was suddenly much lighter. In the middle of having his face kissed by some ancient aunt he turned around and saw that Vehk was retreating from the throng like a frightened animal, clutching hir spear defensively. Sotha Sil politely shooed the reception away and walked over to coax the child back. Vehk immediately clutched his leg, but it seemed that it hadn’t been the crowd that spooked hir; ze was fixated on the sight of Azura’s shrine, trembling so hard that Sotha Sil felt a sharp pang of pity. Serlyn was hovering next to him, and Sotha Sil ordered him to have his luggage brought in before hastily returning his attention to Vehk.

“I won’t.” Vehk told him flatly. “I’m not going to the purple building. Not again.”

Sotha Sil sighed and picked the child up, and ze clung to him as tightly as possible, burying hir face in his shoulder. He turned to Kaisa, who’d also approached with a distinctly confused expression. “Is grandmother still in her yurt?” he asked.

“Yes, of course. It’s behind the shrine. Same place as ever. Why?”

“Take me there.”

As the crowd dispersed they made their way to the northmost side of Ald Sotha. Sotha Sil’s grandmother was ashlander by birth, and even centuries after leaving the tribe she still insisted on residing in the yurt she’d erected in the shadow of Azura’s shrine. She was sitting now in the doorway when Sotha Sil approached, and seemed utterly unsurprised to see her grandson return, greeting him with only with a cursory a nod.

“Where is my father?” Sotha Sil asked.

“You bring me a child.”replied the old woman.

Vehk still clung to him, trembling and fearful, but Sotha Sil gently pulled hir away and placed hir on the ground. Ze made to protest but didn’t quite manage to squeak out the words, and resigned hirself to regarding the old woman warily.

“This is Vehk.” Sotha Sil explained. “Ze comes from Bal Fell. Look after hir, please. I need to speak to my father as soon as I can.”

“Your father’s in the House of Azura. Show me that spear, child.” Sotha Sil’s grandmother extended a hand. Vehk looked apprehensive still, but ze crept forwards and offered forth Milk Finger’s point uncertainly. Sil decided that it would have to do and left.

Kaisa trotted behind him, following as Sil made his way to the shrine. “Ze, hir? That’s dreugh-speak, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but ze used it for hirself. Ze seems to prefer Dreughic and I didn’t see the point in questioning it.”

“How odd!” Kaisa exclaimed. “What an odd situation all around. You have so much to tell me, brother, and Serlyn is dying to hear news of Almalexia, you know how he was practically in love with her as a child! Oh, have we missed you!”

“I’ve missed you too, Kaisa.” Sil replied. “I’ve missed all of you more than you can fathom, and I eagerly look forwards to speaking with you, for I have much to tell. But for now I must speak with Father. Alone”

‘The shrine’ was really an amalgamation of buildings that had formed over several centuries. At its core was the primary structure, a slender daedric tower-- local legend had it that this had been built before the arrival of Veloth by Azura herself. Over the centuries it had amassed a collection of wooden huts and side-rooms that clung to it like mushrooms, and now it formed the centre of Ald Sotha, and the majority of House Sotha’s official business took place within its erratically constructed walls.

As expected, Sotha Sil found his father inside. Sotha Sohleh appeared utterly unchanged by the past several years-- he stood now bent over a table, absorbed in various documents and so fascinated that he hadn't noticed the clamor of Sil's arrival outside. Nor did he notice the sudden appearance of his eldest son in the doorway; it was only when Sil announced himself with a gentle cough that he turned around, and broke into a grin of utter joy.

"Sotha Sil, you've returned at last!" Sotha Sohleh swept forwards and trapped his eldest in a hug. Sotha Sil returned the embrace, but he couldn't help but cringe away from the contact after a moment. There was a heavy weight in his stomach and no amount of joy at meeting his parent could quite erase the memory of Bal Fell’s ruins.

"I've returned. And I've missed you, Father. I've missed all the House."

"You look weary. Was the journey north stressful?"

Sotha Sil grimaced. "You could say such... I decided to stop by Bal Fell."

Silence fell over the room for several moments. It was Sotha Sohleh who broke it first, uncertainly.

"Ah... yes. I'm sorry. I didn't send word because I didn't wish to trouble Lady Almalexia. I assumed..."

"I don't seek apologies." Sotha Sil cut him off. "I seek explanation. Bal Fell was under our protection. What happened?"

Sotha Sohleh sighed and turned away, running a hand through thinning hair. "Believe me, I grieved when I received news. Nobody wished this to happen. Molag Bal--"

"Excuses are not explanation. Why was the city undefended? Molag Bal's worshipers are not a legion. Why were there not battlemages, _something_ , stationed within the town?"

"Because we didn't have the men to spare." Sohleh huffed.  

Sotha Sil couldn't help but snort in derision. "We could not spare two or three mages? Not even one?"

“Do you question my word?”

“I question the sort of _incompetence_ \--”

"Remember your place!" The shout was so forceful that Sotha Sil flinched. Sotha Sohleh took a deep breath and hastened to compose himself. "I mean, no, we could not spare the men. I... I have lied to you, my son. I apologize for this, for it was wrong of me to do so. Things have not been easy in these past years. The Dwemer attack us with more and more persistence, and House Telvanni is deaf to our pleas for re-enforcement. The night Bal Fell was taken I had every man I could spare fighting to repel the Dwemer on the East. I was forced to choose between Bal Fell or Ald Sotha." Sotha Sohleh's voice had taken on a fragile tone. "I am not proud of my decision. But Vvardenfell is a cruel place to call home, and we do what we must to survive."

Sotha Sohleh fell silent, and Sil didn't answer for several moments, trying to process this information.

"You should've sent word." he finally uttered. "I should've been here. Lady Almalexia would've sent soldiers."

Sohleh frowned. "I did send word to Mournhold. It was returned, dismissed, stating that Bal Fell was not worth sparing the Soldiers for and that House Telvanni should be relied on for assistance."

"... What?"

"A grievous slight, but so it is. Alas... I bear no resentment. She is your friend, and a Queen, perhaps she was too busy. But House Telvanni must be dealt with. There is a reason we've gathered here to discuss breaking ties with them, Sil. They can no longer be relied on, and House Sotha will not deal with those who cannot be trusted."

"... I see." It was Sotha Sil's turn to turn away, staring out the window with a deep frown. Almalexia must not have received the letter, he decided, surely she hadn't. She was treacherous and capable of great cruelty, he knew that better than anyone, but surely she wouldn't forsake Sotha Sil's own House?

His father's hand rested on his shoulder. "I'm sorry to have troubled you, my son." Sotha Sohleh said sympathetically. “But fret not. House Sotha is strong. In fact, I suspect that the future will only grow brighter from now on. We've already offers of alliance from other Great Houses and dawn seems to be approaching at last; House Dagoth especially seems interested, and their Grand Councillor has come to negotiate with us personally. Do not fret. We will prosper and survive, just as we always have."

"By Azura's grace." Sil murmured.

Sotha Sohleh removed his hand and stepped away. "I will leave you time to mourn.” he announced. “Besides, I'm certain the rest of your family is keen to see you. Your Mother's nervous fits are greatly improving, and your grandmother has been dreaming of you. I have needs to attend to some business, but I will be down as soon as circumstance allows me. You are dismissed."

Sotha Sil left and returned to his grandmother's yurt deeply troubled. At least he needn’t add Vehk’s well-being to his worries, it seemed-- the child’s energetic chatter was audible as soon as he drew near the tent. He rounded the structure and found Vehk standing outside, relaying an epic story in somewhat clumsy Aldmeris to an audience that consisted of Sotha Sil’s grandmother and the unexpected addition of Voryn Dagoth.

“And the whale was so big I couldn’t even drag it back home, and the Dreugh Queen had to get twenty dreugh to drag it back! She said it was the biggest she’d ever seen! And she harvested all the chitin from it, and she took it to her armorers and they made Milk Finger out of it, see? That’s bits of whale, right there! If I killed you with Milk Finger you’d really have been killed by a whale…”

It was good to hear hir talking again, so Sotha Sil took a seat besides Voryn Dagoth and muted his questions for the moment. Vehk noticed his arrival immediately, however, and split into a broad grin, switching back to dreugh-babble to address him. “Seht, Seht! Did you know I’m an egg?”

“An egg?”

“An egg.” Voryn agreed in Aldmeris. “So your Grandmother calls hir. It’s good to see you again, Sotha Sil, and I’m unsurprised to learn you have such wise ancestors.”

“Well, I’m not the egg.” Vehk corrected hirself in Aldmeris. “I’m a netchiman’s wife. But deep down inside me there’s an egg, I dunno what that makes me. I’m just the netchiman’s wife, that’s all. Voryn, can you tell me more about the magic?”

“Of course.” Voryn got to his feet. “Will accompany me for a walk?”

Vehk latched onto Voryn’s arm, sheer joy shining out of hir face. Sotha Sil watched with a frown as they left, with Vehk still chattering away to an amazingly patient Voryn.

“The poor child.” Sotha Sil’s grandmother sighed once the yurt had fallen back into silence. “Such hardship already experienced, and so much more to come. I wonder why the Daedra have forsaken this one. What sins are they being punished for, and whose sins are those?”

“I wonder.” Sil sighed. A moment’s hesitation, and then he brought himself to speak, almost against his own will. “Almalexia loved that child, even a fool knows that. She wouldn’t have let Bal Fell be ruined if she’d known. Surely she wouldn’t.”

“That child has eaten someone’s sins.” His grandmother sighed, and Sotha Sil closed his eyes, wondering, not for the first time, if anyone could ever be safe from Boethiah’s betrayals.

 

***

 

“So you’ve had your Shouts stop Hoag’s forces from doing their job.”

Almalexia nodded, trying to appear composed. She was standing across from the throne, staring defiantly at the Jarl with perhaps a little too much ferocity betrayed in her face.

Chemua stared back at her, calm. Too calm.

“It’s a dangerous move, little elf.” Chemua purred. “You seem to believe your motley collection of commoners is willing to commit full-scale rebellion. You’re dancing a fine line.”

“Hoag Merkiller has no place in Mournhold. He has no right to collect taxes from the people of our hold.”

“And by whose authority do you claim that, little elf?”

“ _By the Queen’s authority._ ”

She sucked in a deep breath through clenched teeth, glaring at Chemua all the while. Abruptly she found herself wishing that Sotha Sil were present, if only to calm her; her anger burned so hot in her throat that it stung.

And Chemua didn’t even flinch. He stood before the throne, his arms clasped behind his back, regarding her through half-lidded eyes with an untroubled expression. Almalexia took a deep breath and a moment to calm herself, then opened her mouth to speak--

The door slammed open before she could choke out a word.

“My Lady,” a Shout gasped, “The First Commander Heigl. She’s been poisoned-- dead!”

 

***

 

The horrors of Bal Fell lingered on Sotha Sil’s mind for weeks, mingled with a vague and detached paranoia that rested deep in his gut, the intuitive realization that something wasn’t quite right. And though Sotha Sil wasn’t prone to brooding in the same way that Almalexia was, he might have dwelt on the incident and let himself be troubled by it, had the residents of Ald Sotha not been far too keen to reuinte with the House’s heir to afford him the time for such gloomy thoughts. His siblings, Serlyn and Kaisa, were both eager to hear of his activities in Mournhold, and Sotha Sil himself was eager to hear of what his little siblings had done in these past eight years. When he'd left Serlyn had been a roguish adventurer and Kaisa a timid budding archer; now Serlyn was one of the most important junior councilors of the House and Kaisa ran her own marksmanship class. His cousins had similar tales, and his Mother had taken to waylaying her eldest for hours to inquire as to his health and well-being-- in summary, he was very busy. This became his saving grace for the two and a half weeks the Divorce council was held, for he was so busy between his duties and his family that he hardly had the time to ponder all which had occurred.

Of course, it helped that he wasn’t required to tend to Vehk, for the child had apparently fallen in love with Voryn Dagoth. Ze spent every waking moment at Voryn’s side, following him about the island with the starry eyes of an alcolyte gazing upon a god. Ze remained terrified of other strangers and refused to utter a word to anyone outside a scarce few, but the ever-empathetic Voryn had managed to work his way past the child’s walls and was rewarded with enthusiastic adoration. Sotha Sil himself would have loved the opportunity to host a private discussion with the Grandmaster of Dagoth, but he found himself whisked away at every spare moment by some cousin, or a sibling, or his parents, and even when he was free Voryn was usually occupied with Vehk or with the high Sotha councillors. At least Voryn Dagoth seemed unbothered to have been adopted as the child’s unofficial guardian-idol. Sotha Sil often caught site of the two strolling the shores of the lagoon, exchanging words that other simple mortals couldn’t begin to fathom.

Which wasn’t to say that Sotha Sil and Voryn Dagoth were unable to speak at all. They exchanged polite words during the Divorce council-- it did indeed seem as if House Dagoth had its eyes on the House Sotha alliance, and Voryn Dagoth had been carefully working around the thread-worn Telvanni with a tact that was altogether hard not to admire. As Sotha’s heir, Sotha Sil himself was required to be present at many of these meetings, and he was particularly amused by how different the tactful and delicate negotiation tactics of Dagoth were from the stubborn blunt ferocity of the Nordic Council and even Almalexia. These councils made Sotha Sil uncomfortably aware of how young they were, the Queen of Mournhold and her counsellor. They were children compared to most high-ranking Councillors, and had none of the patience as a result-- it was only by Almalexia’s scheming virtue and her willingness to betray that they’d come so far, and he wondered…

Little Vehk was perhaps the only one who was actually dismayed by Voryn’s involvement in the negotiatons. When Voryn Dagoth was laid away with Sotha Sohleh and some furious Telvanni councillor, Vehk would cling to Seht and press for stories of Mournhold and Queen Almalexia; when both of hir preferred guardians were busy ze would retreat to the ocean or hide in the trees, sulking and miserable to be so neglected by those ze loved. These fits of brooding and incurable shyness hadn’t deterred Ald Sotha from growing fond of the orphan, however. In time they’d been home someone had mysteriously combed and cut hir hair, and dressed hir in a modest netcher’s dress, and ze’d even begun a collection of ‘gifts’ that ze hid in a tree with incredibly delicacy. Ze was doing as well as a child of hir sort could, and that left Sotha Sil the time to worry about more pressing matters.

They’d been in Ald Sotha for almost three weeks by the time Voryn Dagoth and Sotha Sil were able to hold a conversation outside the confines of the shrine. The Divorce council was drawing to a bitter close, and it looked as if House Sotha would revert to independence, a decision which House Dagoth took gracefully. Though House Dagoth had no further place in negotiations, Voryn lingered in Ald Sotha for the moment, perhaps because Vehk remained more enamored than ever with him, and even the hardest of hearts would find it difficult to separate them just yet.  But Voryn was mysteriously alone when he apprehended Sotha Sil as the latter left the shrine one afternoon. The Grand Councillor took Sotha Sil politely by the arm and asked if they might speak in private for a moment, and Sotha Sil, though surprised, conceded. They strolled away from the prying ears of the village and along the shoreline, and Voryn Dagoth inquired politely as to Lady Almalexia’s health and Mournhold’s affairs, and he seemed happy to hear that the Mainland was prospering under her benevolent rule. Sotha Sil in turn asked about Vehk’s apparent infatuation with him, which seemed to amuse the sober Councillor.

“It doesn’t bother me; they’re delightful company, intelligent beyond words and wiser than any child I’ve yet met.” Voryn remarked as they walked.

“They truly are.” Sotha Sil agreed.

“But it’s more than that. They have certain qualities, ways of thought, that I’d never expect to see in any of our race. For instance-- oh, but how much do you know of the Dwemer?”

Sotha Sil paused at the unexpected topic. “I know very little of them.” he confessed. “I’ve studied stolen relics from their fortresses, but beyond that my knowledge is limited.”

Voryn nodded at that. “Understandable. Even my elder brothers don’t fully understand their kind, and I doubt that there’s many Chimer in all of existence able to begin to comprehend their psychologies… Vehk may be one of these.”

“Is that so?”

“I believe so. House Dagoth carries Dwemeri blood in its veins, I know the sort well enough. Chimer are dual-natured, but Dwemer are unified. Vehk seems to see things in this unified way, unusually.”

“You'll need elaborate, Grandmaster Dagoth.” 

“As an example, there’s no gender amongst the Dwemer. They have sexual organs but reproduce without sex; they do not have males and females as the Chimer do, but find such differentiation frivolous and choose instead to define each other by clans. Chimer identify ourselves by our existence and thoughts, but the Dwemer favor actions. And so on.”

“How fascinating…" Sotha Sil murmured. "I wonder if this isn’t evident in their machines, I’ve noticed some strange design quirks that this might explain…”

“What’s a machine?”

Both men turned around. Vehk had been trailing them, and hir dress and hair were sopping wet, but ze beamed up at them innocently all the same.  

“You know the answer, I’ve told you before.” Voryn had smiled at the child’s arrival, but his expression turned grim the moment Vehk’s attention shifted to Sotha Sil. Sil caught it, but then the child was talking:

“Do you really build machines?”

“I dabble in the craft, yes.”

“Wow… I wanna make machines. Alas, I’m just a netchiman’s wife… maybe the egg will create something one day! I hope it’s machines. Machines are so cool.”

They came to an emperor parasol, and Voryn took a seat at the base of it. Sotha Sil sat next to him, and Vehk immediately landed in Sil’s lap, talking still. “Or magic, maybe? I wanna learn flesh magic like Voryn. Seht, ze’s so good at flesh magic, I cut my hand on a rock and ze healed it right away! Do you think the egg could hatch into a mage?”

Sotha Sil glanced at Voryn Dagoth, who looked utterly unfazed by the cryptic speech, but he still had that grim expression. Vehk seemed to have noticed it too, because ze’d wriggled around and was watching Voryn with a frown of hir own. “What’s wrong?”

“Vehk,” Dagoth began softly, “Do you recall what you told me about Sotha Sohleh?”

“The netchiman’s friend? The tall spirit?”

“Yes. Tell me the story of meeting him again.”

Vehk went silent for a moment. “Must I…?”

“Please. This is important.”

Sotha Sil made to ask, but Vehk had already begun to speak. “One day the netchiman’s wife… me… I was sitting at home.” ze reported, hir voice flat and detached. “And a tall spirit came in and I heard him talking to my husband. And, um… they… my husband said, he said he’d send Serjo Molag Bal to do the spirit’s bidding. But the spirit had to let my husband have our town and the people and do--” Vehk cut off with a small whine and buried hir face in hir hands. “Sorry.”

“You’re doing wonderfully.” Voryn reached out to touch Vehk’s back, which seemed to give hir strength. “Now, tell him what you warned me of.”

"I..." Vehk trembled-- then ze abruptly cried out and reached up, tugging frantically at Sil’s shirt, and Sotha Sil couldn’t help but recoil from the sheer desperation of the act. “The spirit, I saw him here! I saw him again, he's here, he lives in the purple building! Oh, you have to stay away from him! He’ll hurt you! He’s evil!”

“What in Oblivion are you talking about?” Sotha Sil uttered. “Calm down--”

But Vehk had burst into tears. “He’s tricking you, he’ll hurt you, but you don’t see because you called him Father!”

The child hid hir face in Sotha Sil’s shoulder and Sil hugged hir tightly, letting hir sob and shake with fear. He turned to look at Voryn, who had that same grim expression.

“What… what is the meaning of this?” Sotha Sil asked.

“I’ve as clear as an idea as you do.” Voryn replied softly. “I… apologize that you had to discover this.”

“Azura’s grace, I can’t believe…”

Vehk was still sobbing, but Sotha Sil forced himself to gently ease hir off of him. Vehk sniffled but didn’t protest, relocating hirself to Voryn's side with legs hugged to hir chest. “Look after hir.” Sil instructed Voryn curtly.

“Where are you going?” Vehk sniffled, and Sil replied with a grimace:

“I’m going to go cast a spirit from the shrine.”

The walk back to Ald Sotha seemed much longer than the walk away had been and Sotha Sil couldn’t seem to move quickly enough. He forced himself to slow lest he betray his distress to anyone watching, but his heart was beating so quickly that it almost hurt. The story had caused facts to click into place like gears, and the resulting machine shone light on the creeping paranoia he’d tried so hard to dismiss throughout the week. He’d never believed that mere Daedra worshipers would be able to take the village alone. It was unthinkable. Some part of him had known that someone was responsible for this deep down, and yet he’d never dared suspect treachery to this extent, and from someone so dear. The thought of Vehk weeping in terror resurfaced abruptly and he quickened his pace.

He found his father in the main part of the shrine. Sotha Sohleh greeted him in the usual amiable way, but Sotha Sil replied by curtly replying that they needed to speak, in privacy. They descended the steps to the chamber, which held a candle-wreathed statue of Azura.

They came to a stop before the statue and Sil turned to his father. He asked without hesitation: “Did you make a deal with Molag Bal?”

“What?!” Sotha Sohleh was aghast, “No, of course not! I would never!”

“Vehk saw you at Bal Fell.”

“The words of a mere child would cause you to question your own Father?!”

“No, not just that. But I’ve been pondering how, with so few men that you couldn’t even defend a fishing village from petty Daedra worshipers, you repelled a whole Dwemer host. Explain that to me.”

“Well, it wasn’t an enormous host-- I--” Sotha Sohleh sputtered and fell silent. Sil’s fists were clenched, the anger emanating from him palatable. They regarded each other with hostility, each so furious that they might come to blows, until Sotha Sohleh abruptly snapped and exclaimed:

“Fine! I gave Bal Fell to Lord Molag Bal. I exchanged a minor fishing village to save our House. There, you have it.”

“How could you?” Sotha Sil uttered in disgust.

“Oh, forgive me for doing what I had to in an impossible situation! You’ve been in Mournhold too long, you’ve grown soft and ignorant.”

“It was you who sent me away!”

“And for a good reason, you insolent, interfering brat! You understand nothing.”

There was lightning dancing about Sotha Sil’s fingers as if spoiling for a fight. It was unthinkable that someone would turn on a member of their own House, and in a place so sacred nonetheless, but Father and Son were now watching each other with unconcealed hatred.

“You should’ve never returned here.” Sotha Sohleh hissed. “I will not have you-- _pup_ \-- questioning my authority.”

“What authority?” Sotha Sil spat back. “You call yourself Grandmaster? Here, before Azura’s shrine, moments after you confess that you sacrificed her people to _Molag Bal_?"

“Are you trying to challenge me?”

“When you banished me to Mournhold I told you that I would do what is best for our House.” he stepped forwards, raising a hand that was now thrumming with destructive magika. “I intend to do what I must to fulfill that vow.”

“Even if it meant turning your hand against your own father?”

“I wouldn’t hesitate.”

Sotha Sohleh took a step back, raising his own hands in preparation to cast, and for a moment it seemed as if they truly would come to violence--

A sudden draft extinguished the candles that sat before Azura’s statue. It was a small gesture, but effective, for Sotha Sohleh snapped out of his rage and lowered his hands, uttering a cry of despair:

“Sil! You’re my eldest, my first-born son. You’re right, I’ve done a terrible thing, and I am deeply sorry. I don’t wish to add to my sins by hurting my dearest kin! Stop this! Let us make peace.”

“I have no peace to make with a servant of Molag Bal’s!”

“Then his name will never be spoken in our village again, and his worshipers will be persecuted with all our force. Please, my son, put down your hands.”

Sotha Sil slowly lowered his hands, the lightning discharging benign along his wrists. He was almost shaking with the force of his anger; the taste of betrayal was too fresh for any thoughts of sympathy or forgiveness to reach his mind.

“Have them destroyed, each and every one.” he ordered.

“It will be done.”

“And you must accept the alliance with House Dagoth. Ald Sotha cannot be placed in this situation again.”

“It will be so. I’ll speak with Voryn Dagoth immediately.”

“I’m not going to return to Mournhold. I will stay here, assume the role of Second Councillor, and be consulted in all your doings regarding the House.”

“You’re my child, not my--”

“ _Are we clear_.”

Sotha Sohleh threw up his hands and sighed deeply. “Very well. It breaks my heart to have broken your trust in me so.”

“No more than it breaks mine, I’m sure.” Sotha Sil replied, his voice curt. It was a sincere statement-- the betrayal stung more than any heartbreak could. Even now he couldn’t entirely believe it. Images of the wreckage seemed to swim before his eyes.

“Sil…” his father began tenderly. He reached out and Sotha Sil recoiled from the gesture.

“I need a moment.” he replied, hollow. “Excuse me.” With that he turned and left, and with his anger subsiding so quickly into grief, he automatically made the decision to seek refuge at the edges of the merciful sea.

 

It was late in the night when Vehk found him again. The child approached silently, and kept a safe distance as ze sat down cross-legged, seeming almost apprehensive. Sotha Sil glanced over but said nothing, returning his gaze to the ocean, and Vehk didn't dare to utter a word. They sat in silence for a while.

“I’m sorry.” Vehk finally said, hir voice soft.

Sil shook his head. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I told you about the spirit and you got upset.” Vehk’s voice was shaky. “He was your Father. What if I made that happen? It’s my fault.”

“No, it’s not. It’s my Father’s. Don’t eat his sins.”

Vehk sniffled, eyes downcast. “What’s that mean?”

“It’s an ashlander saying. To eat someone’s sins is to take responsibility for their crimes.”

“Oh… I won’t, then.”

They fell into silence once more, Sotha Sil keeping his gaze directed at the sea. It was a while before Vehk spoke again, abruptly and on the verge of tears,

“But I have done something wrong! Everything is so bad and it must be my fault. Why else would things be so awful? I’m bad, I feel bad, Seht, I…” hir voice broke and ze looked over, and Sotha Sil was surprised to find that the expression was one of fear, “Am I bad?”

Sotha Sil shook his head. “You aren’t bad.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m certain.”

“Then why do I feel so broken? Why don’t I feel real?”

Sotha Sil thought long and hard before he finally gave his answer:

“Because you’re an egg.”

Vehk crinkled hir nose. “An egg?”

“You’re still a child.” Sil explained. “You have so far to go and so much to do yet. You haven’t finished forming, you can hardly say that you’re good or bad when what is ‘you’ hasn’t even emerged. Like an egg, there is still so much inside of you, knowledge and talents and realizations that will one day hatch. Your task is to care for yourself until that day comes.”

“I’m an egg...” Vehk murmured.

“That’s right.”

“Or… not an egg. Not me.” Ze crawled over and curled into a tight ball with hir side pressed to Sotha Sil’s. “I’m just a netchiman’s wife. But there’s an egg inside me... that’s Vehk. That’s who I’ll be one day. And I won’t let anything happen to them. Ayem ae Sehti ae Vehk." 

Sotha Sil didn’t reply, and Vehk didn’t speak any more after that. They simply sat in silence and watched the moons sink below the glittering horizon.

 

***

 

The throne room was cold, and poorly lit besides, but Almalexia made no move to light a torch. She stood frozen at the head of the table, motionless but for her eyes, which moved robotically between the three pages spread in front of her.

The first was a brief note in Sotha Sil’s own scrawl:

_Bad things have occurred and I can no longer trust that Ald Sotha will be safe in my absence. I hereby resign my position as your counsellor and will not be returning to Mournhold. Your orphan Vehk is prospering and has gone to Azura’s Coast to be a ward of our new patron-House, Great House Dagoth. Yours, Sotha Sil._

The second, a letter informing her that Heigl Ash-Helm’s family had returned to Skyrim and that the late Commander’s remains were to be sent to the listed location.

The third was a letter that had been found and brought to her by a loyal Shout:  

_Didaj hear? Our new First Commander is the bloody Jarl himself! The same man letting Hoag’s people run rampant about the city and massacre anyone who can’t pay their soulsickened tax! What’s that child Ayem doing? Useless bastard whore. We’re all going to be driven into poverty! Let’s leave for Ebonheart, Doht, just like we always planned. This place is going straight to Oblivion._

The door creaked open and slow footsteps echoed throughout the room. Almalexia didn’t turn around, or give any indication that she’d noticed Chemua’s arrival until he spoke.

“Well, little elf, you’ve got your audience. Let’s hear it.”

Almalexia kept her eyes on the table, but it took all her effort to speak in a calm voice. “Repeal the tax on saltrice farmers.”

“No.”

“It was not a request.”

“I know.” He stood opposite her, and she slowly lifted his eyes to take in the unbearable smugness of his smiling face, his languid pose.

“Repeal the tax,” she repeated, “Or I will challenge you to public combat and I will kill you.”

“You think you can defeat me?” He chuckled. When she didn’t waver, he spoke a single word-- a word so powerful that it hit her like a blow and she stumbled backwards. She regained her footing and stood straight, squaring her shoulders as she fixed him with a defiant glare.

“You can’t kill me. The people will riot.”

“No harm in killing some unruly elves. Especially,” Chemua nodded to the three pages on the table before her, “If they still decide to riot after I’ve convinced him this tax was your idea. You aren’t the most popular thing around, it seems.”

A small tremble went through Almalexia, born of barely restrained hatred, or perhaps fear. But she took a deep breath, clasped her hands behind her back, and tried to assume a more relaxed position.

“Very well.” she switched to a more casual tone, “If it’s money you seek, House Indoril has plenty. Simply name your price and I’ll see it done. There’s no need to extort it from the lower classes.”

Chemua seemed to consider the offer for a moment, before giving a slow shake of his head. “I’m the Jarl of Morrowind’s capital, little elf. I’ve money enough.”

“Slaves, then.” Almalexia pressed. “As many as you like. You aren’t married-- I could find you a wife, as high-born as they come. Or a husband, if that’s what suits your tastes.”

“I’ve no desire for a wife or slaves.”

“Crops? Power?” Desperation was creeping into her voice. “Anything-- name your price and I’ll see it provided. Anything.”

Chemua laughed in the face of her offers.

She broke, then, and cast aside her composure with a cry of rage. “You monster!” she shouted. “You bloody cruel n’wah! You make them suffer and for what? Your pride? Families are starving on your account!”

“Elf families.” Chemua replied. “I care not.”

Almalexia charged around the table and struck him hard in the chest. He barely reacted so she punched him again-- he was so much larger than her, much thicker, it was as futile as striking a wardrobe. And he didn’t even react to her outburst; he stared down with half-lidded and derisive eyes, as if he were regarding a child having a tantrum. Almalexia clenched her fist and struck him once more.

“ _Damn you!_ ”

“Damn me.”

“Repeal the tax!”

“No.”

“Show some mercy!”

“I’d rather not.”

“Please--” her voice broke. Suddenly she was laughing, hysterical, her eyes brimming with tears. “I’ll do anything! What is it you want? Is marriage satisfactory, you heartless cold outlander _bastard_? Will you repeal the tax if I lick your spear and act as your whore? Or are you so unfeeling that even--”

She was slammed back into a table. All at once she was beneath someone, and there was a tongue shoved into her mouth, a hand around her neck, a beard rubbing against her face and unpleasantly on her lips. She tried to get away but the weight of the Nord’s body on hers made it impossible to even recoil. Shock settled over her and she found that she couldn’t react, couldn’t do anything but wait until he broke the kiss and stood, looming over her with his grip on her neck pinning her to the table.

“What I want?” Chemua growled. “I want obedience. I want utter submission. I want you on your knees before me, little elf, in the bed-chambers and in the court.” His thumb dug into her jaw and she squirmed in pain. “I want your surrender, and you will submit unto me from henceforth. Are we clear?”

Silence. Chemua removed his hand from her so that she could sit up

“Well?”

She was staring deliberately past him, but she answered, in a quiet voice. “I agree to your demands.”

“Good.” Chemua stood straight and turned away. “I’ll dismiss Hoag’s soldiers and send word that the tax is repealed. Meet me in my bedchambers tonight. We’ve much… tension to release, you and I.”

Almalexia watched him leave, still as a statue.

A letter that had been stuck in her hair slipped out and landed in her lap; she picked it up and scanned it, taking in Sotha Sil’s familiar scribble. They’d always written letters to each other as children. The best of friends, regardless of distance…

She tore the letter into shreds and swept out of the room.

 

* * *

_Then Seht came to the netchiman's wife and said:_

     _'I am the Clockwork King of the Three in One. In you is an egg of my brother-sister, who possesses invisible knowledge of words and swords, which you shall nurture until the Hortator comes.'_

 


	4. IV, Part One

_And Seht then extended his hands and multitudes of homunculi came forth, each like a glimmering rope through the water, and they raised the netchiman's wife back to the surface world and set her down on the shoals of Azura's coast. There she lay for seven or eight more months, caring for the egg-knowledge by whispering to it the Codes of Mephala and the prophecies of Veloth and even the forbidden teachings of Trinimac._

_Seven Daedra came to her one night and each one gave to the egg new motions that could be achieved by certain movements of the bones. These are called the Barons of Move Like This. Then an eighth Daedroth came, and he was a Demiprince, called Fa-Nuit-Hen, or the Multiplier of Motions Known. And Fa-Nuit-Hen said:_

     _'Whom do you wait for?'_

_To which the netchiman's wife said the Hortator._

     _'Go to the land of the Indoril in three months' time, for that is when war comes._

  
  


* * *

 

 

The library of Holamayan Monastery contained books on subjects ranging from prophecy to pharmacology, history to herbology, aedric heresies to daedric realities, tomes from as far back as the early Merethic era that no doubt held fascinating secrets on anything and everything. Vehk skipped by all of those titles with no more than a passing interest. Hir goal was a different one tonight: deep in one dusty corner, stashed between _The Third Aldmeris Encyclopaedia of Family Names_ and _A Collection of Essays on Ashlander Trama Root Weaving_ , was hidden an interesting collection of martial arts books. Azura’s pacifistic monks had exiled these violent manuals to the most hidden parts of the library, which suited Vehk perfectly, for it meant that ze could now browse concealed and without interruption.

Crouching in the shadows, ze delicately reached out and used a fingertip to clean dust from the spines, glancing over familiar titles. _The Teachings of Trinimac_ … _The Codes of Mephala_ … _Spearcraft in Action_ … ze skimmed from one to the next, passing over those ze’d already read-- which, at this point, seemed like most of them. The more ze browsed, the more ze began to wonder whether ze’d already read every book that the library had to offer, and Vehk found hirself pondering how ze could have studied so hard and yet still feel so ignorant in the arts of fighting. How could one study every book to be found and remain an insufficient warrior?

Hir slender fingers paused over an unfamiliar tome and ze pulled it from the shelf. It was ancient, bound in dusky leather, and when ze opened it ze had to shove hir fist in hir mouth to prevent the plume of dust it belched from making hir cough aloud. The text inside was handwritten and messy, but remained clear despite its great age, and ze took in each word of the title carefully:

_What Fa-Nuit-Hen taught me: the journal of a Yokudan adventurer._

Yes, Vehk decided, this would be a suitable subject for study. Ze stashed the book beneath hir skirts and crept back to hir room.

***

Ze hadn’t always lived at the Monastery.

Truth be told, ze hadn’t wanted to be a monk at all. Ze’d entered Voryn Dagoth’s care as an orphan of no more than eight and it had been expected by nearly everyone that ze would grow up as the Grandmaster’s ward. This meant that ze was to live in Kogoruhn, the seat of House Dagoth, a frightening stronghold in the midst of the northern ashlands perched right under the shadow of looming Red Mountain. Vehk couldn’t have been more excited for it at the time; in hir mind ze was to become the new prodigy of the House, the beloved adopted son-daughter of Voryn Dagoth himself! This was a particularly fond thought for hir, as ze had loved Voryn with all the sincerity that a child of seven or eight could love anyone, and so had sworn that ze’d follow Dagoth to the ends of the earth.

This had changed the moment they arrived. Vehk _hated_ the stronghold. Ze hated the other Dagoths, whom Voryn spoke to with so much love, and ze hated that merely seeing Voryn interact with his brothers drove hir out of hir mind with jealousy. Vehk hated the healers and the withdrawn scholars and the stuffy diplomats. Ze hated the ash that clogged the air perpetually, the grey wasteland that stretched around the stronghold as far as the eye could see; ze hated the people who all thought ze was a girl and called hir one; ze hated the groans of the sick that occasionally echoed through the halls. And, more than anything else, ze hated the ghost of the woman who would wander the halls and stare at people with fire-eyes, and though the others refused to see her Vehk was perpetually terrified of her burning judgement. For the entire week ze’d lasted there ze’d clung to Voryn at every moment possible, weeping and pleading to return to the ocean, or to Ayem, anywhere besides that Gods-forsaken place, until Voryn was forced to make other arrangements for the terror-stricken child.

The academy in Tel Aruhn proved likewise to be an unsuitable fit, as within hir first week there Vehk had taught hirself to lockpick and freed the miserable slaves that filled the Telvanni shipyards.

Frustrated but sympathetic, Voryn had finally decided that what Vehk needed was time to heal. Peace, quiet and sanctity would surely serve the orphan well, he thought. And so Vehk had been sent to Holamayan, Azura’s sacred island, where a small and hidden monastery welcomed the child with open arms and gentle smiles.

Thus had begun what was, in Vehk’s humble opinion, a life of peace and utter boredom. This place had its own share of problems and frustrations-- the priests were ignorant in staggering ways-- but it was tolerable if one was patient. Vehk had presented them with hir meek and feminine ‘netchiman’s wife’ exterior and they had taken to her immediately.

What the priests could not know was that within the netchiman’s wife was an egg. Seht had revealed this holy truth to hir, and ze took strength from it. Vehk was an egg, a not-yet-thing hidden deep within the body of the netchiman’s wife. If ze felt incomplete it was because the egg had not yet hatched; hir duty, the netchiman’s wife duty, was to protect it until that moment came.  

Life in the monastery was simple for its alcolyte. Vehk and the priests would wake before dawn and eat a humble breakfast, chatting and socializing as they pleased until the barrier opened and those who needed to leave could do so for the day. Some days Vehk would be kept inside; on these days ze’d be regaled to the care of one of the musty priests, and they’d study a range of topics: how to read and write at first, and then later history and mathematics, philosophy and the magical arts, conjuration and alchemy and, most importantly, the Three Good Daedra, and all the things that Azura seemed to think that the chimer should know. Vehk enjoyed these days, even if they were often tedious-- ze reasoned that the egg would need to know as much as it could before it hatched.

Other days, Vehk, playing the part of the loyal apprentice, would tag faithfully along when the priest on that day’s outside duty would exit the monastery at dawn. They’d spend the day roaming the island, tending to the shrines, harvesting saltrice and alchemical ingredients from the small garden they kept, and collecting kwama eggs from the humble mine (Vehk, who was nimbler than the crusty old priests, was usually given this last task, and ze found great joy in jumping around the chittering kwama workers). Sometimes there were also pilgrims who arrived on the island to seek the wisdom of the monks, and Vehk was usually allowed to eavesdrop on these conversations. The days when the pilgrims came were especially vital for Vehk, for though ze was too shy to speak to the strangers, they brought news of the outside world and ze would listen with particular rapt attention to the latest gossip.

Ze was also given one day a week where ze was free to do as ze pleased, and ze would usually spend these days perusing the library or wandering along the coast in deep thought. Then there were the holidays, where routine was set aside and Vehk was allowed observe mystifying ceremonies, occasionally even participating. Sometimes there were funerals, or days when the moons were in a certain phase and special rituals had to be performed, and even those rare days when Azura herself would appear, and the whole monastery would gather before her and listen to her holy words with love bordering on madness.

But Vehk’s favorite special day occurred roughly once every six months, when Voryn Dagoth himself would visit the island. Vehk’s feelings for Voryn were anything but consistent-- one minute ze’d see him as hir idol and savior, only to hate him for abandoning hir the next. But as soon as the Grandmaster showed up Vehk would fall in love all over again, and they’d spend the day from dawn to dusk speaking until Vehk’s voice was raw. Then Voryn Dagoth would leave a few days later and Vehk would loathe him to the point of tears, and the cycle began anew.

Voryn’s next visit was scheduled to be in just eight weeks. But Vehk had existed for a long time now, more than fourteen years, and though Azura’s priests might be perfectly satisfied with the meek netchiman’s wife, Vehk knew that Voryn could see right into the egg-core and couldn’t be impressed with boring tales of religion any longer. No, Vehk had grown and was finally prepared to enact a plan that had been forming for years. This time ze would ask Voryn to return to Kogoruhn, to assume hir proper place among House Dagoth, and ze knew that the Grandmaster would never let himself be burdened by some talentless priestling. Vehk had to learn to defend hirself, teach hirself knowledge of both words and swords. Then and only then could ze ask hir oldest friend to take hir back to the mainland and give hir a place in the world, one where ze would be great, admired…

Then the egg could hatch and ze would be complete at last.

 

***

The moons were both almost full tonight, so bright in the sky that Vehk hadn’t even needed to bring a torch to read by. It was the tail-end of dusk when ze managed to creep through the barrier. Rucksack in hand, ze darted through the inner doorway and dove outside just moments before the massive shell of the monastery’s barrier slammed shut for the night. It wouldn’t open again until dawn, which meant that Vehk would have to sleep outside-- not that ze minded. The air of Azura’s coast was warm and salty and made hir think of home. Ze didn’t mind it in the slightest.

Ze picked hir way along the narrow path until ze came to a fringe of rock that faced the Inner Sea. There was a certain pillar that jutted out over the ocean, and if Vehk was willing to make a risky jump or two ze could situate hirself nicely in a little alcove that was hidden entirely from land. Concealed safely in this niche, ze was able to settle back and focus entirely on the work before hir-- namely, extracting the secrets of battle from this musty old tome. Ze settled in a pool of moonlight, crossed hir legs, and spread the book across hir lap, beginning hir careful task.

Ze’d barely finished the first paragraph when ze realized a spirit had joined hir.

Dappled light was moving about the page, refracting into rainbows in one place, merging into pure whiteness in another. It flowed like silk over inked letters, a delicate twinkle of color and gentle glow that might not have been noticed if one had not carefully enough read the passages they illuminated. Vehk exhaled in awe at the sight, slowly lifting hir eyes to the crystalline form that stood behind hir, a form that shimmered and shifted surreally against its backdrop of stone.

“Do you know who I am?” asked the spirit in a voice like falling glass.

“The Baron Who Moves Like Light Glittering Through Crystal.” Vehk whispered in reply.

The crystalline form smiled a dignified smile, multi-faceted and radiant. “I am the first Baron of Move Like This.” he said, “Stand, observe me, and I shall give you my motions.”

Vehk stood and turned to face him, utterly without fear. “Show me.”

They began to dance.

***

 

When the priest discovered hir curled up and asleep outside the monastery door at dawn he was furious. Vehk received a scolding that lasted nearly an hour, followed by condemnation to a day of cleaning the inner shrine. This in itself was a hassle-- there was wax to scrape from the altar, and ashes to sweep up, and banners to straighten-- but the netchiman’s wife graciously took care of the task, and Vehk curled up deep inside her to meditate on what ze’d learned.

The next week Vehk waited for hir day off before ze crept out of the monastery at dawn. This time ze didn’t have to wait-- ze simply opened the book and then the Baron was there, this time not made of crystal but of wind and rustling grass. He showed Vehk how to move as gracefully as the breeze, how to sway but remain standing like reeds or saplings, and they danced along the shoreline until the sun touched the ocean on the distant horizon. Vehk, exhausted, crawled back through the door at dusk and collapsed in hir bed, asleep before hir head touched the pillow.

And so it went. For the six days between lessons Vehk would spend every spare moment practising the delicate and particular movements that each Baron had taught hir. Ze moved about the confines of hir little room like heat lightning one week, twirled around the library like a dancer’s swirling hips the next. Ze would even spend the moments ze was meant to sleep practising, so devoted to hir new craft as ze was, and when patrolling around the island ze’d spend as much time twirling over rocks as ze did on hir duties. The priests of the monastery didn’t think much of their apprentice’s newfound passion-- they excused it as a girl’s whimsical fancy, for women were doubtlessly idle creatures, and out of fondness they even overlooked the few times Vehk would skip a lesson in order to dance about hir room. They were ignorant and saw only the netchiman’s wife weaving footwork to pass the time; they could not know that within her the egg of Vehk was learning eagerly, and remembering, and mastering.

Seven weeks passed in this way, for in the end there were only seven Barons listed in the Yokudan adventurer’s tale. Vehk learned from each one, and in the meantime practised, and waited, and dreamed.

The day of the final lesson arrived at last. Voryn Dagoth’s visit was only a few days away now, and Vehk had awoken before dawn, eager to get on with the final portion of hir training. Ze scarfed down hir breakfast of saltrice porridge, ignoring the polite conversations of the priests, and was at the barrier before dawn had even appeared on the horizon. To occupy hirself in the unbearable minutes before the barrier’s opening ze swirled gently to and fro before the door, weaving among unseen swords like a careful cog in a great machine. In hir minds eye ze could practically see the spears of hir enemies, unable to touch hir, for ze was intangible, masterful, shimmering like a soul, ethereal--

“Azura’s grace, we trained a priest and ended up with a dancer!”

Vehk whirled around and immediately dipped into a deep bow; before hir stood the Arch-Canon of the monastery. “Muss-sera.” ze mumbled.

The Arch-Canon reached out and stroked hir hair fondly, which made hir cringe and recoil. “You must share your dances with us one day, my girl,” said the elderly mer with a smile, “And mind you remain humble. It does not do to be vain in one’s own body.”

A blush rose to Vehk’s cheeks, but then the barrier was creaking open. Ze barely had time to blurt out a quick farewell before snatching hir satchel from the floor and bolting.

The sun had just broken over the horizon, and a violent ash-storm was rising to the west, turning the whole sky a magnificent shade of pink and magenta. Vehk didn’t even notice the striking sunrise, hasty as ze was. Ze ran as quickly as ze could to the edge of the island and out onto the outcrops of rock that fringed it, hopping nimbly from one tiny islet to the next, until ze came to hir chosen stage: a circular flat plateau a short distance from the shore proper. It was about the length of a small boat, ringed entirely with fragrant marshmerrow plants that completely concealed hir from view, and so flat that ze could move about it easily without fear of stumbling. Breathless with anticipation, ze pulled the book from hir rucksack and opened the aged pages, hastily flipping forwards. Last week ze’d met the seventh Baron, the final one in the tome, but he’d promised that there was yet another lesson to come and ze was anxiously awaiting it. This was when hir weeks of movement would pay off at last. Ze hadn’t yet been able to understand what fighting and dancing had to do with each other, but that would all be fixed today, a transformation miraculous. Voryn Dagoth would be so proud.

Hir eyes landed on the final page: Fa-Nuit-Hen. Heart fluttering, ze read on.

Nothing happened.

Ze read the whole page, taking in the account of the author’s meeting with the Demiprince. Uncertainly, ze read it again. And again. Again. No matter how many times ze repeated the passage, how carefully ze re-read, ze remained utterly alone. The sun had cleared the ocean now and the air was growing swiftly warm. Vehk frantically flipped through the pages, back and forth through chapters, desperation rising in hir throat. Why wasn’t it working? Had the daedra abandoned hir already? Ze got to hir feet, flicking through the book--

“ _VEHK_.”

There was a mighty crash of thunder and the scream of clashing blades. Vehk dropped the book in alarm, whirling around, then immediately took a step back and let out a fearful cry. Before hir stood a form made entirely of movements and weapons, surrounded by its Barons-- it was a storm-cloud, a maelstrom of swords, a chaos of firing arrows and fists that rained like hail within its chaos-form. It was violence incarnate and Vehk was all at once terrified and in awe.

But ze squared hir shoulders and lifted hir chin, forcing hirself to face the spirit boldly. “Are you Fa-Nuit-Hen?”

The maelstrom-spirit slowly shrunk, condensing itself to a form more tangible, and within moments it had changed entirely-- it was now an elf, short and distinctly not chimer, with skin the color of corkbulb and piercing green eyes. It was Vehk’s height but standing too close, and ze immediately pulled back, only to have the other elf mimic hir movements perfectly.

The other elf cocked his head and smiled. “So you remember me, just as I remember you! Yes, I’ve remembered our last meeting, and I’ve so eagerly awaited this one.”

Vehk, who was still doing hir best to appear confident, relaxed slightly. “We’ve met?”

“Of course we’ve met!” The Barons nodded their heads as Fa-Nuit-Hen spoke. “And I know much about you besides. In fact, there’s little I don’t know-- but enough chatter! Where’s your weapon?”

“My weapon?”

“Your weapon, child! How do you expect me to multiply the motions you know without something to fight with? Oh--” The daedra drew a spear from nowhere and handed it to the baffled Vehk. “Fine, here. I have my forgetful days as well. Arm yourself and we’ll begin.”

Dumbly, Vehk took the spear, and just like that they began.

It was just like dancing, Vehk realized immediately. When Fa-Nuit-Hen’s spear swung towards hir, ze automatically flickered away, nimble as light through a crystal. When ze aimed hir spear’s tip for the daedra it flew towards its target like the wind through the reeds. They fought in a way that was more artistry than violence, so precise and fluid were their movements; time seemed to melt away as Vehk whirled between thrusts, met blows with blocks, evaded each strike of the blade before it had even begun to move.

And then they were moving in unison, their movements so synchronized and fluid that it ceased to be a fight at all. They were gears in a machine, wheels interlocking, perfect in their actions and whole in their ways, and Vehk felt understanding fill hir as ze avoided a feint, skipped back, swirling into the air and then thrusting hir spear perfectly, taking advantage of a gap--

Ze was actually surprised when hir spear pierced flesh.

Fa-Nuit-Hen, too, looked rather surprised. But rather than be angry, he actually _smiled_ , looking up at Vehk with an expression brimming with pride. Vehk, who hadn’t often had such an expression directed at hir, immediately dropped hir spear and took a step back.

“So you truly _do_ remember!” Fa-Nuit-Hen cried proudly.

“Huh?” Vehk crinkled hir nose. “Of course I remember! I’ve been practising for eight weeks!”

“No, not that!” The spirit lightly whacked Vehk on the nose with a speartip and ze let out an indignant squeak. “Our first meeting!”

“What first meeting? What are you speaking of?”

Fa-Nuit-Hen sighed. “Oh, well. Perhaps you truly don’t remember, you were rather young. They say that children learn best, but perhaps the same doesn’t apply to mere infants! Regardless, you must ask your tutor to remind you.”

“My tutor?”

“Yes, with the red hair. Or was she your mother? Oh, never mind--”

But Vehk had already cut him off. “You knew my mother?”

“Perhaps she was your sister... Regardless, I’m sure that she would remind you.”

“You don’t mean Ayem?” Vehk asked, rather breathlessly. Ze had long given up hope that the mythical woman had even spared a thought for hir-- but daedra knew things that mortals didn’t. Before ze could stop hirself ze seized Fa-Nuit-Hen by his shoulders. “Do you know where she is? How is she? How did you meet?”

The spirit moved to escape, but Vehk recognized the motion from one of the Barons and immediately moved to counter it. They struggled for a moment, hand-to-hand, and then abruptly ze found hirself lying on the ground, head ringing with pain. Ze slowly sat up, letting out a pitiful little moan as ze did, and clutching the side of hir head.

Fa-Nuit-Hen stood over hir, hands on hips. “Not bad.” he remarked. “It’s a shame, your potential is altogether wasted in this monastery. You could be a marvelous warrior in the right place. A hortator, even!”

“I’m just a netchiman’s wife.” Vehk replied sullenly, hir head still ringing from the blow.

“That’s right.” Fa-Nuit-Hen conceded. “Now that I think about it, you aren’t the hortator. No, the hortator’s in the lands of Indoril right now. Which reminds me-- your Ayem is in Mournhold.” The spirit extended a hand to help Vehk up and ze took it, still feeling slightly unsteady. “Yes, I think you should go to Mournhold.” the daedra concluded. “Become a warrior and teach my arts to the world! You are wasted as a priest.”

“A warrior…” Vehk mulled over the thought.

“Moving on!” Fa-Nuit-Hen suddenly stepped back. His barons moved to him, and the eight spirits seemed to merge, becoming a form indescribable and breathtaking. “Are you ready for your final lesson, little Vehk?”

Vehk returned to the monastery that night breathless, sore, hir limbs so weary that ze could hardly move them, but above all else exhilarated. New knowledge flowed through hir like elixir, fueling hir every movement and threatening to burst hir chest. For the first time in perhaps a very long time ze knew that ze could protect hirself. Ze was _good_ at something. Voryn would be proud, ze was certain, and hir plan had worked out marvellously.

When ze reached the barrier it was already half-descended. Ze ducked under it just in time and then climbed stiffly to hir feet. Ze must have been the last one in, for the hallway was unusually deserted, so empty that it may have unnerved hir were ze not still giddy with pride.

No sound came from the dining-hall, but from the library echoed indistinct voices. Ze reflexively pressed hirself to the wall-- the priests would have questions about hir daily activities, and ze was almost too tired to move, let alone think. It would be best to avoid conversation for now. Stealthily ze crept forwards, and the chatter from the library gradually became intelligible.

“Really, it’s no trouble.” That was the arch-Canon, his voice uncharacteristically polite. “I’m simply relieved to find you uninjured, muthsera. A storm, you say!”

“Yes, it was quite dramatic.” Vehk’s eyes widened-- that was Voryn Dagoth’s voice. “But it got me here swiftly, for which I am thankful. Your letter worried me greatly. You spoke with Azura?”

“As I detailed in the letter. And again, this dawn, she appeared and confirmed my suspicions.” The arch-Canon sounded distinctly concerned, distressed in a way that Vehk had never heard him. Ze found hirself hovering next to the library door, listening intently.

“And you’re certain that she blamed the child?” Voryn, too, sounded strangely concerned.

“Certain? Of course I am!” the priest spat. “Surely you are not surprised?”

“They’re just a child, sera.”

“Not a child-- she’s Molag Bal’s spawn!”

Vehk strained to hear, pressing hir ear hard against the door. The daedra’s name had sent a sharp shudder through hir and a feeling of unease was rising quickly in hir gut.

“You have been a friend to Holamayan,” the arch-Canon continued, “but we cannot ignore the omens any longer. I have trusted your judgement but your word is no longer enough. By all acounts the House of Troubles is spreading across Vvardenfell, and its foul forces are lead by someone who wears the Lady of Roses’ own robes. Azura has given us her prophecy, Dagoth, how can you still doubt?”

“I do not doubt that there is corruption somewhere. But to blame the child… it is harsh, even for you.”

“Harsh but not unwarranted. You have not been here, and you have fond eyes for her, so you’ve been blind to the truth of her situation. Her soul wanders, muthsera. She shuns rituals, strays in her duties! Soul-sickness creeps into her with every passing day. The path she walks is… is _profane_! She’s invited evil into Azura’s place of pilgrimage!”

“I assume you have proof of her supposed corruption?”

There was a long moment of silence. Vehk, frozen in the shadows, chewed on hir lip so hard that ze tasted blood.

“Fa-Nuit-Hen.” Voryn finally sighed.

“A Demiprince.” The arch-Canon replied, voice firm. “Allied with the House of Troubles. This is only the beginning. She’s no longer a child and I fear her. She appears to embody submission but there is something evil within her and it grows, sera. She feigns at stupidity, pretends to be a simpleton, and yet spends every spare moment devouring the profane arts and communicating with Azura-knows-what spirits!”

“She’s misguided, perhaps. Being misguided is not being evil. You speak too hastily.”

“If anything I speak too gently. Tell me, Master Dagoth-- do you truly believe that a child sacrificed to Molag Bal may ever be redeemed? Do even you have hope that the horrors she has witnessed will not one day turn her into her destined Master?”

There was a long pause. “I… I confess that I’ve had the thought myself.” Voryn Dagoth replied softly. “Ze’s… damaged, very damaged. Though I’ve always had hope that even such a broken creature could be repaired, if what you say is true...”

“Malacath is sometimes called The Damaged One, but we know Malacath to be an enemy of all settled chimer.” replied the arch-Canon. “Is Molag Bal different from his fellow Corner? I tell you, the child smells of evil. She dances as if drinking from the Fountain of Forgetfulness and sways as if to seduce. I have seen younger acolytes watching her closely as if being tempted and it perturbs me. The way she moves… If she could ever be saved, Master Dagoth, I fear that she has burned that bridge in her longing to return to Coldharbour.”

“Perhaps… fine.” The sound of footsteps. “I see your point, muthsera. If she troubles you so I will have her returned to Kogoruhn and examined by a healer-priest. In the meantime, I ask--” Abruptly the door opened, and Vehk found hirself bathed in light, face-to-face with a surprised looking Voryn Dagoth.

“Vehk!” Voryn exclaimed, surprised. “I didn’t expect--”

Vehk turned around and fled.

The netchiman’s wife ran for her room and Vehk was carried along in raw shock. Ze flung open hir door and charged in, almost falling over in hir haste. Ze was trembling-- hir face was soaked with tears, ze couldn’t breathe, thoughts raced through hir mind at light-speed until ze feared that ze was going to explode with the intensity of it. Hir room consisted of only a small mattress lying on the floor, under which Vehk had stashed the few precious gifts given to hir by the dreugh-- Milk Finger, hir gills, the crumbling and decayed remains of a red wax seal. Ze threw the amulet around hir neck, snatched the spear, and bolted out of the room, scrambling for the door.

Dusk had long passed and the barrier was firmly shut. Vehk skidded to a stop and kicked it firmly, once, then twice. There was a sound of breaking bone but the barrier didn’t move. Ze struck it again with a violent sob. Ze couldn’t feel the pain, couldn’t feel anything above the overwhelming need to _get out_ , the claustrophobic heartbreak that filled hir chest. Ze kicked once again--

A hand seized hir from behind. “Vehk!” Voryn’s normally soft voice was loud and nearly frantic.

“Let go of me!” Vehk shouted at him.

“Wait, I beg you--”

“Don’t touch me!”

“You don’t understa--”

Abruptly the hand had disappeared. Vehk blinked and found hirself facing Voryn; the Grandmaster had staggered a foot or so away, with Milk Finger’s shaft protruding from his stomach.

The blood-splattered barrier slid open with a groan. Vehk wrenched hir spear from hir former friend and ran.

The moons were setting across the sky, turning the tranquil waves into a field of shattered glass and causing broken rings of silver to form around hir feet as ze crashed into the tides. There was already water on hir face, salty as the ocean, and ze didn’t take the time to wonder whether the foul taste on hir tongue was the sea or hir tears. Ze felt like ze was dying, anger and betrayal were all that were left in hir, ze couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, hir heart ached beyond belief and the emotion within hir threatened to rip apart hir chest.

But then ze was underwater, home. Salt water filled hir lungs and washed away everything but the truth.

***

It was dawn when ze awoke. Hir senses came back slowly: first the smell of sea, then the taste of salt-- then the abrupt realization that sand was completely clogging hir nostrils. Ze sat bolt upright, coughing violently. Salt-water and sand spilled out of hir mouth and ze doubled over, heaving until hir lungs were clear. Once ze was done ze sat back, wiping hir face with the back of a wrist, and slowly eased hir eyes open, looking around.

Ze seemed to be on a long stretch of coast, facing a range of hills that dotted the landscape as far as the eye could see. Behind hir the ocean murmured against the beach as the tide went out, still as a mirror except for where small green islets protruded from the azure waters. It was Azura’s coast, a familiar sight, but there wasn’t a mer-made structure to be seen. The otherwise tranquil scene an odd air of loneliness.

Vehk shivered and curled up. The air wasn’t even cold, but hir dress was sopping wet and clung to hir form uncomfortably, chilling hir to the core. With trembling fingers ze stripped the garment from hir thin body and then stood, completely naked and weak on hir legs. Hir muscles burned as if ze’d been swimming for days, and with hir mouth filled with salt ze felt painfully thirsty. Had ze swam all night? Ze couldn’t recall. Ze wracked hir brain in an attempt to reclaim the memories that had triggered this unexpected voyage-- emotion immediately surged up and ze pressed it away entirely in fear that it would overcome hir. Whatever had happened, it was too much, far too much. So ze did all ze knew how to, and retreated deep into the egg, and forced hirself into that odd state of being where ze wasn’t hir body and could rest curled up and unaffected by this pain.

Vaguely ze felt hirself pick up the spear and begin to walk.

The sun was rising steadily on what promised to be a warm and sunny day. Detached, unreal as ze felt, ze could almost enjoy the scenery, for this part of Veloth was beautiful in even the saddest eyes. The sand was cool under hir soles and softer than garden soil; ze walked along the shore, letting lukewarm tides lap at hir feet and flow between hir wide-set toes. Overhead a cliffracer called its peculiar screech. The wind stirred against hir skin, pleasant as a lover’s touch. In the distance the Shrine of Azura poked over a hill and offered its moon to a pale blue sky.

They were going south, ze realized after a while. Over the distant hills, the monumental Shrine of Azura held its offering of moon and star to a sky of eggshell blue. The memories of last night’s events were swirling in the back of hir mind, but ze tried desperately not to acknowledge them. Instead ze focused on the more important question-- why south? Where was ze going? Where could ze possibly go?

Kogoruhn-- no, ze could never go back there. Hatred rose in hir throat like bile at the thought of ever seeing Dagoth again.

Ald Sotha, to Seht? But Seht had abandoned hir too. That place was a nest of bad spirits and Vehk felt ill to think of it.

Mournhold?

Once upon a time a million years ago, Sotha Sil had told hir stories of the city, and the Queen with red hair and wits sharper than a snake’s. She wasn’t Vehk’s real mother-- hir real mother had died giving birth to hir, or so Seht had said-- but Ayem had pulled hir from the ash and claimed hir as her own. Perhaps she’d welcome Vehk back with open arms?

Yes, she would, she had to. Vehk at once decided that ze would head for Mournhold, for Mother Ayem. The tales ze gathered from Seht and the Netchiman had warmed hir through hir coldest nights and occupied hir wild fantasies. In Vehk’s mind Ayem was powerful beyond belief, with hair made of fire, but her spirit was gentle and kind. She would look upon Vehk and smile in a sublime way and welcome her child back with open arms. She would name Vehk hir princess, or hir prince, or something in-between. Vehk would grow to be beloved by all, safe and secure, and the egg would hatch and ze’d realize who ze was all along. Ayem would love hir, Ayem would be gentle and sweet, she would be so much better than backstabbing Voryn Dagoth....

Ze didn’t care about Voryn Dagoth any more, ze had decided. Perhaps ze even hated Voryn. What was Voryn, after all, but the demon who had lured hir away from Mournhold and Mother Ayem? Ze should have been sent back to Mournhold and hir mother with Seht-- but Voryn had seduced hir and tempted hir away with false love. Ze would have been a ruler if it weren’t for Dagoth’s evil treachery. And what good was Voryn anyway? Voryn had thrown her into Holamayan without a second thought, abandoned hir just like that! Vehk had been a gullible idiot-- no, Vehk had been a child, and Dagoth a demon, a devil, an evil daedra almost as foul as _that one_. It was Voryn Dagoth’s fault; Ayem would fix it all. All pain had been replaced with anger now, and the sun on hir back burned as hot as the vitriol in hir throat. Ze hated Voryn Dagoth. _Loathed_ him. This was all his fault. Vehk hated him, more than anything, ze--

Hir thoughts came to a halt as ze smacked face-first into a wall.

Ze blinked. Apparently ze’d already reached Azura’s shrine-- the statue of the Daedra loomed high above hir. How far had ze travelled, and for how long?

Ze winced and rubbed hir nose. Hir legs ached, and though ze still didn’t feel entirely attached to hir body ze sat down and eased the sore limbs out in front of hir. Long legs with bony kneecaps and thick thighs, ze observed thoughtlessly, as if they belonged to someone else. Hir entire body was odd-- midway through puberty, it seemed unable to decide whether it was male or female, and had crafted itself into an odd mix of the two. A lean frame and broad ribcage conflicted in an unsightly way with hir curved hips and the delicate buds of breast tissue that protruded from her chest.

Ze shuddered abruptly and curled up, hugging hir knees to hir chest. Ze’d never much liked hir physical form. Detached from it or not, ze suddenly wished ze hadn’t discarded hir dress.

The sun was uncomfortably hot now, and hir mouth was still dry. Ze did hir best to moisten it with spit as ze settled back against the base of the shrine, shutting hir eyes against the glare. Unwelcome thoughts of Voryn Dagoth returned to hir mind and ze did hir best to shove them away. Would he survive that wound?

A faint breath of wind stirred hir hair and brought hir the sound of distant voices. Vehk was roused at once-- ze leapt to hir feet and seized Milk Finger, then concealed hirself behind the pedestal of the shrine, clutching hir spear defensively. Gradually the voices grew closer.

“I’m simply saying, he’s awfully rude.” Two men, it seemed to be, and the first one sounded rather bemused with the second.

“By my Lord, need you keep complaining? He’s rude because you’re a moron.”

“Goodness! And you, you’re just as bad as he is!”

“I am his second-born son, a nobleman and a scholar, and I will not lower myself to tolerate ignorance. He has bestowed upon us this task, it’s our duty--”

“Shh!” The first voice suddenly interrupted the second. “Do you see that?”.

The conversation paused for a moment and Vehk heard footsteps.

“I see nothing but your hideous face.” The second complained. “What are you doing?”

“Here, at the shrine--”

Suddenly two mer rounded the corner. Vehk immediately brandished hir spear, retreating rapidly as ze did. Ze attempted to utter a warning of “Stay back”-- hir voice came out as an unintelligible croak.

“Oh, dear…” The first mer, a short and odd-looking man with soft features, said to himself. As Vehk retreated he started forwards, reaching out a hand and speaking with a soft voice. “Come, now. You needn’t fear us.”

“What are you doing?” The second, taller and thinner than the first, scowled.

Vehk crouched behind the shrine, concealing most of hir body behind it. “Get away.” ze forced out-- hir whole throat was parched and even speaking hurt. The first mer, with a sympathetic expression, seemed to realize this, for suddenly he withdrew a bottle from his knapsack and offered it out with a gentle smile.

Vehk eyed them nervously for a moment. But ze was unable to resist hirself and, covering hir nethers with one hand, darted out and snatched the skin, then retreated to hir shelter. The bottle turned out to be filled with water, cool and refreshing beyond belief; ze drank it down to the last drop.

“What are you doing?!” The second mer hissed. The first, ignoring him, had drawn a tunic from his satchel and tossed it over. A little less cautiously this time, Vehk crept out and snatched it, pulling it over hir head. It was too big on hir, falling past hir knees, but appropriately covered ze felt comfortable enough to step out from hir shelter and face the two mer with head held high.

“She’s just an orphan.” the first told his companion. “Look at her! Harmless!”

“You needn’t waste our supplies on it.” retorted the second one.

“I am not an it.” Vehk interrupted them. They both looked over, surprised, but the first mer smiled and extended a hand.

“What’s your name, my dear?” he asked sweetly.

Vehk paused, uncertain. “I… I’m a netchiman’s wife.”

“So it’s soul-sick too.” The second scowled; the first ignored him.

“You’re a wife? Where’s your husband?”

Vehk didn’t reply to that, and the first mer’s expression softened. “Don’t you have anyone?”

“Well… No,” Vehk replied, hir voice threatening to break. “Not any more. They left...”

“How awful!” And, utterly unexpected, the first mer darted forwards and caught Vehk in a tight hug. Ze didn’t react-- ze didn’t know how. The mer’s arms were tight and secure around hir, and he was crooning in a sympathetic voice. “My poor, sweet girl! Who could ever be so cruel as to abandon you? You must have been through so much!”

“I-I guess…”

“Tell me, sweetling, where do you plan to go?”  

“Mournhold.” Vehk mumbled into his shoulder. “I’m going to Mournhold.”

The first mer laughed aloud at that. “Really? Why, so are we!”

“... Really?”

“Indeed, to Ebonheart and then to her sister-city, Mournhold. Perhaps you could travel with us?”

Vehk pulled away and looked between them. The first was smiling, gentle, but the second regarded hir with a strange and somewhat unnerving expression.

“You would have me?” Vehk asked cautiously.

“Of course, my dear!” The first mer chirped with a welcoming grin. “Why, I’d even thank you for it. I’d never forgive myself for leaving you out here alone. I myself come from a modest family and know what it is to struggle. Sweet netchiman’s wife, I practically beg you-- travel with my companion and I to Mournhold! You are too precious to risk the road alone.”

Some small, rational part of hir realized that this could go terribly wrong. But a much larger part of hir, a physical and perhaps quite shallow portion of hir being, was still tingling from the hug and seemed to be gradually filling with a great warmth, a warmth that set hir heart at peace in a way entirely unfamiliar. It was the warmth of being loved, ze realized, and the great outpouring of it that came from this strange man-- no, not a man, but a spirit, for so good a creature certainly couldn’t be mortal-- was as tantalizing as the sweetest wine. So, as naturally as could be, ze smiled and replied “Alright!”

“Praise our Lord!” cried the man, and he rapturously swept Vehk off of hir feet in a joyous hug. Vehk found hirself sharing his joy, laughing right along with him. The second spirit (for he, too, was a spirit, Vehk decided), had turned away from their union in disgust and was hunched at the shrine of Azura, but Vehk failed to notice, so happy as ze was to have suddenly found love in this beautiful and benevolent spirit that now held hir tight. “We shall set off at once. The beautiful city of Mournhold awaits us, as our destiny does!”

“How wonderful!” Vehk replied, grinning.

“How wonderful indeed, my girl.” The first spirit cooed.

Behind them there was a sudden great trembling, and Vehk spun around in the spirit’s embrace, only to see the Shrine of Azura collapsing into a flaming pile of rubble. “It’s done!” The second spirit called, hurrying back over. The first clapped his hands in delight, singing words of praise, and Vehk stared at the rubble with something akin to amusement. After seven sordid years of learning to be one of her priests, ze found that ze was outright happy to do away with the ugly statue entirely.

The first spirit took hir hand in his arm, and ze used hir other hand to grab Milk Finger. The sun was almost too bright, as if to reflect hir new-found joy, and under its warmth they set off on their voyage to Mournhold.  

“Why did you destroy the shrine?” Vehk asked cheerfully.

“Azura is a bad, atrocious daedra.” replied the first spirit, matter-of-fact. “She’s misled the chimer people and does not deserve our reverence.”

Vehk nodded. “She let my village be taken by Molag Bal.”

“How horrid! How cruel!”

“You aren’t trying to recruit this child, are you?” sneered the second spirit. “What game do you play?”

“I lived in Bal Fell as a child.” Vehk informed him, ignoring the second spirit. “Then I lived in the ocean. But my brother saved me-- his name is Seht. He doesn’t like Azura either. He never mentioned it, I don’t think he really knows it himself, but I can see it when someone talks about her.”

“How sweet your brother must be!” The first spirit declared cheerfully. “I am glad, treasured girl, that once in your life someone cared for you so dearly. How dear you are, after all!”

The second spirit, however, had a funny expression. “Seht?”

“Do you know him?”

“I.... no, no. I most assuredly not.” But the second spirit looked uncertain.

They travelled on and the first spirit told Vehk all about his House. Vehk didn’t listen, so busy ze was with hir own vivid fantasies of the life to come in Mournhold, and it seemed that in this moment time was moving by beyond control. At one point they attempted to cross a tall crop of rocks and Vehk found that ze’d grown so exhausted that ze couldn’t make the passage over. The first spirit had picked hir up and from then on they travelled with Vehk held securely in his arms, the netchiman’s wife too tired to move, but the egg inside lively and giddy with love that ze’d so desperately craved for so long. Time ceased to exist, actions were without consequences, no evil could touch hir. Vehk, overjoyed by the simple breath in hir lungs, even found hir telling them of mother Ayem and how ze would be a princess of all Resdayn when ze returned to hir long-lost sister. And Seht would return to Mournhold, too, and they would be a family, and they would be safe, and looked after…

Just before dusk they came to a small boat that was moored against a crop of rocks. “We’re here, my princess-to-be!” announced the first spirit. Vehk jumped from his arms beaming as he spoke on. “To Ebonheart, then to Mournhold, and to a new and grand world under the patronage of our Lord and his House! If only you knew, but this nobleman that travels with us is a shaper of dynasties, and we are travelling to the city in hopes of creating about a new empire.”

“Truly?”

“Truly! For he is going to assassinate the unofficial Arch-Priestess of Boethiah and all other traitors to our race! Make no mistake, my daughter, but Vvardenfell is the home of the True Chimer still, and we will see our land brought to freedom once again!”

Vehk turned to look at the second spirit, who shuffled uncomfortably. “Ah…” the second spirit began, “About that.”

“Does something trouble you?” asked the first.

“It’s simply-- I’ve been questioning.” confessed the second. “I have utter faith in our Lord, and our House, and his House… but I do not understand this assassination.”

“It is not your place to understand.” the first replied plainly.

“Yes, but it troubles me!” exclaimed the second. “She poses no danger, surely! Since my eldest brother left her side she hasn’t uttered a sound! Why must I now go to kill her? I understand it not!”

The first spirit’s grasp was warm around Vehk’s shoulders but his grip tightened slightly. “You doubt the word of our Lord? The word of your Lord Father?”

“I…” The second spirit looked away. “No! I simply… I do not understand and I fear to do something I can’t understand.”

“Destruction is the precursor of creation and the friend of ambition.” declared the first spirit; Vehk was overcome with how wise he must be. “But you are young and I merciful, so I will explain. Your Lord Father is worried that your eldest brother will be seduced by her again.”

“ _That_ is why?”

“Our plans draw to a delicate stage, and if he cannot be persuaded to join us…”

“We would not fight him! He’s family!”

“Precisely why your mission is important.”

The second spirit sagged in despair.

“Do you understand?” asked the first.

“... I understand.” said the second.

Vehk, still wrapped in the first spirit’s arm, watched him very closely.

“Finally! Now, shall we set off?” Asked the first spirit.

The second spirit took a step forwards, only to pause. “No!” he abruptly cried, turning away. “I’ve changed my mind, I want no part in it! I’m going to return to my Lord Father and tell him that I refuse.”

“Serl--”

“Quiet! You and Vehk go on without me. I cannot murder her, you cannot ask this of me!”

And, just like that, the second spirit disappeared with a faint whoosh. The first spirit, arms wrapped around Vehk, frowned deeply at the air where he’d been.

“Huh.” Observed the first spirit.

“How did he know my name?” Vehk wondered aloud.

“Fret not about him, sera!” The first spirit declared. He lifted Vehk into his arms, and Vehk was once again filled with the heavy, warm joy of love poured directly into hir flesh. “You will be a princess, and my Lord will be pleased to have you among our ranks. Perhaps he will even make you one of his red wives! Come, let’s set for Ebonheart.”

They boarded the ship, a small but sophisticated craft not unlike the one that Vehk had once discovered Sotha Sil on. The single boatsman was a strange creature, vaguely reminiscent of an elf and yet utterly different, with skin the color of ebony and a short stature. But the first spirit greeted him warmly, with a friendly wave. “At-Hatoor! Are we ready to sail?”

“At once, muthsera. Who is the child?”

“She is a netchiman’s wife and a sweet princess whom I have agreed to escort to Mournhold.”

“I see.” The dark-skinned man called At-Hatoor turned away, preparing the ship for sail, and the first spirit escorted Vehk to the lower deck. They ate a meal of food foreign and delicious while Vehk spoke optimistically of the future, and of plans, and possibilities. It was growing quite late, and so the first spirit offered to take the netchiman’s wife to bed, and Vehk, being so warm and joyous and filled with love, agreed immediately. They fell into a hammock, and while the spirit coupled with the netchiman’s wife the egg that was Vehk found itself drifting high above the world, content and thrilled and glad for the simple joy of existing.

Ze must have fallen asleep, or become too detached from the world, for when ze returned to hir body it was abruptly and with a violent _crack_.

The belly of the ship had been rendered asunder and seawater was flooding rapidly into the gaping wound. Within moments it was over hir head, and ze braced hirself for the momentary queasiness as it poured past hir gills and filled hir lungs with salty brine. Ze snatched Milk Finger from the corner of the cabin and swam out into the wider ocean.

The ship had been shattered against a pillar of basalt. In the distance there was a small beach, not unlike the rocky ones that dotted Azura’s coast, and ze swam for this out of instinct more than anything. The sky was still dark above hir, but there was a vague brightening about the horizon, indicating that dawn couldn’t be far off. Had they crossed the inner sea already? Vehk arrived at the beach and crawled out of the waves, coughing up sea-water to make way in hir lungs for air.

Before hir was a coast made of ash. The sand beneath hir palms was coarse and black, speckled white where crushed shells had been coughed up by the sea. Though the stretch of coastline was utterly bare, in the distance stood the hulking form of emperor parasols, a familiar sight against the unfamiliar landscape.

Hir body was tired and cold, Vehk realized. Ze set off for one of these mushrooms and, upon reaching it, immediately collapsed. How odd it was, the egg thought vaguely, to be so detached from the world. The shipwreck seemed nothing more than a minor setback and it was difficult to consider how anything about this could possibly bode ill. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise, even! Ze smiled as ze considered the possibility, shivering and sore beneath the emperor parasol.

“Girl!” someone called. Vehk turned to see At-Hatoor, soggy and walking towards hir with a scowl. Ze smiled and waved a hand in greeting.

“You said you’re going to Mournhold, girl?” asked At-Hatoor.

“Yes, sera, I am.”

“Come on, then.” He offered a hand and Vehk took it, climbing unsteady to hir feet. “We wrecked in a convenient location. Our destination isn’t further than a day’s walk. Come.”

The sky was growing bright and it felt as if luck was in the air as they began to walk. At-Hatoor was rather quiet, but Vehk soon decided that that must be because he, too, was a spirit. He didn’t let go of Vehk’s hand and ze felt still so unreal that it only made sense that a ghost had been sent to guide hir. A spirit of wisdom, perhaps!

They walked for perhaps a few hours before Vehk attempted to strike up a conversation. “Serjo, are you a spirit?”

At-Hatoor laughed. “As they say-- I am he who seeks the wandering tower called I.”

“I don’t understand you, serjo.”

“Do you need ponder more?”

Vehk considered it for a moment, then laughed. “No, because it doesn’t mean anything! You’re just trying to sound mysterious.”

At-Hatoor remained silent.

They walked a couple of hours more, holding hands and remaining in silence. Vehk began idly to wonder whether ze’d done something wrong. Perhaps ze’d offended the spirit?

“Well... “ Vehk finally confessed, sheepishly. “Perhaps it does mean something.”

At-Hatoor, still, said nothing. This was immensely troubling to Vehk, who spent several minutes wracking it over within hir head, attempting to work out the cryptic message. How could a person be a tower? Why would one name a tower “I”? It sounded like nonsense, and yet At-Hatoor remained silent, disapproving.

“Amazing!” Vehk suddely declared with a grin. “It does mean something. I mean, it means nothing, but you’ve tricked me into finding it meaningful, so now it means something!”

At-Hatoor smiled and Vehk felt distinctly proud of hirself.

They walked for a while longer, Vehk detached and daydreaming idly of hir future kingdom, hir glorious life as a queen or king of all the world. When ze next returned to hir body ze found hirself staring at a meager village-- more of a collection of shabby huts than any village, really, decrepit and stinking of fish, but Vehk felt the faintest stirrings of distant nostalgia and decided that ze quite liked the run-down place. At-Hatoor lead hir through the rotting structures and to a particularly quaint-looking hovel. The door was shut despite the mild weather and one could faintly smell the scent of burning resin-incense from inside.  

At-Hatoor knocked briskly on the door. It was yanked open after a moment, and a gaunt-faced mer poked his head out, frowning at the guests. “What is it?”

“I am At-Hatoor. I’ve fulfilled my part of the contract… almost.”

“You were meant to bring my Lord’s assassins. Where are they?”

“One refused to board my ship and left. Then there was a shipwreck and the other perished.”

“And the child?”

“Traveling with the first. A netchiman’s wife, or so she says, wishing to travel to Mournhold.”

“What good is an orphan to our Lord?!”

“That is not my concern. My payment, sera.”

The mer swore under his breath and offered forth a pouch, which At-Hatoor took. He pulled his hand from Vehk’s and turned to walk away, leaving Vehk standing, aimless and perplexed, at the doorway of the stranger’s hut. Suddenly anxious, ze called out to the retreating At-Hatoor-- “Wait!”

At-Hatoor turned around, frowning.

Vehk paused, uncertain of what to say. “Did it really have any meaning?”

“It’s just a proverb.”  With that, At-Hatoor shrugged and left.

It was past noon if the sun was anything to go by and Vehk’s throat was sorely parched. With no other apparent options ze pushed open the door to the hut and entered, calling out a meek “Hello?”

“Oh, for the love of--” the mer from earlier turned around, frowning. “You again, child. What do you want?”

Vehk didn’t know how to respond to that. “I want to go to Mournhold.” ze croaked.

The mer scowled and turned away. “Cousin!” he called out, “There’s an orphan here for you. Wants to go to Mournhold!” He turned back and fixed his wry gaze on Vehk. “Go on, then. Into the next room. I’ll not hold your hand, girlie. Shoo!”

The netchiman’s wife proceeded timidly into the next room, where two more spirits sat in quiet conversation. The first looked similar to his cousin, with a distinctly irritated expression, and he beckoned Vehk over the moment he saw hir. “Come over here, then. Where did you come from?”

“From Vvardenfell, on a ship. With At-Hatoor.”

“Which of the corners do you come from, then?”

“Pardon?”

“South-eastern Vvardenfell-- that’s the Dagon contract. Are you the assassin, then?”

“I’m not an assassin.”

“You ever killed anybody?”

Vehk thought vaguely of Voryn Dagoth, and Milk Finger’s blade covered in blood. “Yes,” ze said uncertainly, “But…”

The spirit scoffed and sat back. “I never liked this contract, and now I find they’ve sent us a mere child. What are we meant to do with this? House of Troubles be damned, this should have been passed on to the Morag Tong and left alone. You aren’t an assassin, you’re about as useful to me as a soul-damaged guar!”

“I guess…”

“Given so much to bear so young. Absurd! How old are you, fourteen? How do they expect you to murder anything more than a corpse?”

Vehk frowned and took a step back. “I didn’t come here to assassinate anyone.” ze said uncomfortably. “I just want to go to Mournhold.”

The spirit rolled its eyes and turned away.

“You are harsh on her.” A woman’s soft voice said from the shadows.

Vehk flinched and turned around. From the corner of the room the other mer had been watching them, concealed so skillfully in the shadows that she was hard to notice unless she made herself so. She spoke now gently, secure, without changing her position. “You heard her. She doesn’t wish to murder anyone. What is your name, girl?”

“... I am the netchiman’s wife.”

“Come here, netchiman’s wife.”

Vehk found hirself obediently approaching the woman. She was attractive, ze thought dimly, in a distinctly chimeric sort of way, with sharp features and a slender frame. But her eyes were red like fire and ze found hirself utterly unable to tear away from that gaze, even as ze paused just a foot in front of her.  

When ze looked upon the incident later, ze didn’t know precisely what ze had been expecting. Did ze think ze would be struck? Chastized? Whatever it was, ze wasn’t expecting a soft palm to be placed against hir face-- the most sincere and gentle touch ze’d ever felt. Ze shivered and leaned into it automatically.

The spirit studied hir for a long moment. “No…” she finally exhaled. “You’ve lied. You aren’t a girl. Not entirely.”

Vehk tensed. “How do you know?”

“Because I, too, am in-between. I understand.” she sighed and stroked some sand from under the orphan’s cheek. “My name is Mephala.”

“Oh, don’t fool yourself!” spat the cousin-spirit from the other side of the room. “It’s a simpleton! Take it, if you wish, but don’t expect to get anything from it. Dagon’s worshipers will never accept gifts from the Morag Tong!”

“I’m not--” Vehk began, but Mephala spoke over hir.

“This child is not an ‘it’. She is blessed and beyond the comprehension of mortals… as you have demonstrated.”

An odd cluster of emotion surged through Vehk at that moment. How odd, ze thought at once, that nobody had even tried to understand hir before ze met this woman. Ze was tired, ze realized, utterly tired, and sore beyond the physical. No matter how much ze hated Voryn ze ached with grief over the betrayal. The egg was safe but hir heart was broken. Ze wanted to be safe, to be whole… ze wanted to go home.

“Are you okay?” asked Mephala softly.

“I…” Vehk trailed off. Then ze nodded.

And then ze broke entirely; ze sunk to hir knees and dissolved into tears.

Ze’d returned to hir body at last. The spell had broken and ze was suddenly overwhelmed with grief, and fear, and all those emotions ze’d tried so hard to force back. Though ze tried desperately to stop it ze couldn’t prevent the tears from flooding from hir eyes, hir whole body becoming useless with the force of hir sobs. Ze doubled over, burying hir face in hir hands, and weeping, weeping so hard that it hurt.

“Oh, my girl…” Mephala was next to hir, taking hir in her warm arms and holding hir tight while ze sobbed. “There, there. I have you now. I have you…”

“Who am I?” Vehk choked out in tears.

“You are a child of Mephala,” the daedra murmured in return. “And you are home.”

***

Vehk slept for two days straight after that. The ordeal of the past days had drained everything from hir, both physical and emotional, and the moment ze’d found the opportunity to let go ze’d cried hirself to sleep in the stranger’s arms. Perhaps ze’d felt so much that there was nothing left to feel. All ze wanted to do was sleep, and ze desperately needed the rest.

Ze awoke on the third day, just after dawn-break. Ze was lying on a soft straw mattress under blankets that were threadbare but clean; in her sleep someone had washed hir, and changed hir tattered tunic for a clean and well-fitting robe. Somehow ze knew ze was safe-- or perhaps ze’d ceased to care about hir physical safety and was willing to bear whatever this new circumstance threw at hir. For whatever reason, ze lay still and quiet in hir bed, until Mephala entered with a bowl of hot kwama egg and a pitcher of water. She was seemingly relieved to find hir charge awake, and helped hir sit up, supporting hir as ze scarfed down the kwama and sculled the water. Once Vehk had eaten hir fill and was sitting securely in the bed they spoke.  

“So you truly are between sexes.” Mephala observed, nonchalant.

Vehk blushed and looked down at the almost-empty bowl. “I’m the netchiman’s wife.” ze replied, “Most people just call me a girl.”

“Are you a girl?”

“I don’t know.” hir voice sunk to a whisper. “I don’t know what I am any more. Maybe I’m an egg. I... I don’t even know what’s real.”

Mephala sighed sympathetically. Vehk’s face remained downcast, hir eyes brimming with tears, but ze suddenly felt slender fingers trailing through hir hair.

“There is no netchiman’s wife.” she told hir.

“I’m the netchiman’s wife.”

“No… no, my child, you do not have to defend yourself from me. Put down that lie. Look at me.”

Vehk reluctantly looked up. Mephala’s expression was gentle, but her red eyes were stern. “You have been hurt.” she said. “Understandably. The world is cruel to our kind. I, too, have suffered hardships.”

“Our kind…?”

“The orphans, the beggars. The mutants and the rabble. The lost and the soul-sick. Our kind.”

Vehk’s gaze dropped again. “Oh.”

Mephala reached out and took one of hir hands in both of her own. For many moments she said nothing, and Vehk was polite enough not to pull away.

“I do not ask for your trust.” Mephala finally said. “Trust is for fools. Neither of us can afford to be fools. But let there be no lies among liars either. You are not a netchiman’s wife-- hide behind that shell no longer.”

“I…” Vehk screwed hir eyes shut. “I can’t. I’m her. I don’t exist yet, but she does. I’m the netchiman’s wife, I simply have to survive until the egg hatches. I’ll become so much more, I’ll be whole, I’ll…”

Hir voice wavered, and broke, and ze fell silent, staring at hir lap.

“You are what you are.” said Mephala.

“I don’t know what I am.”

“A between-sex, Mephala’s blessed. A long-lost child of mine returned at last. A being that exists, not an egg, not a wife. You are what you are.”

“So what?” Vehk sniffed. “I’m still alone. I don’t know what I’m going to do...

Mephala removed her hands and stood, smiling gently. “You fear for your future. I understand, I was once like you. But let me tell you of myself; in Ebonheart there is a guild. We call ourselves the Daughters of Mephala, those who perform her art of sex in exchange for gold. And a between-sex Daughter is highly valued, my child-- whatever else you wished to go on and do eventually, you would certainly be able to find employment by my side.”

Vehk’s eyes widened and ze stared at her, face flushed red. “You want me to be a whore?”

“It is not so shameful.” replied Mephala. “Rarely we have been left with a choice, after all. But you would be wealthy, and I would tutor you besides. There are things we know that more… respectable mer do not.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then we part ways. That’s all.”

“Please don’t leave me.” ze blurted out.

Mephala smiled and stepped away “I’ve given you your options. But the choice, my child, is yours.

She had such a sweet smile, the sort that Vehk imagined a mother might have. Ze wanted to embrace her, or be embraced by hir, but ze would have to make a choice first. Ze took a deep breath, hesitated…

And nodded hir consent. “I choose to stay with you.”

“Then we shall leave for Ebonheart by tomorrow.”

 

***

Vehk’s first view of Ebonheart was from a great distance. They mounted a hill and ze actually froze in hir tracks, tugging at Mephala’s arm with an expression of unconcealed awe.  

It was a striking city, even after being ravaged by more than a century’s strife and Nordic hatred. The sister-city of Mournhold, Ebonheart was a stark but noble labyrinth of obsidian stone perched at the delta of a great river and surrounded by a vibrant field of green. Brown roads stretched from it on every side and its fringes were speckled with the distant forms of mer going about their business. It was the largest city that Vehk had ever laid eyes on, ze couldn’t help but feel almost afraid. Ze heard Mephala chuckle softly-- “If this frightens you, I’d counsel that you reconsider going to Mournhold. Come.”

They followed the winding road down the hill, through the plains of wild crops that had reclaimed Ebonheart’s lush river-fed banks. The city’s walls only grew bigger and bigger as they approached. Within an hour they’d almost reached the gate, and by then the sentry-towers loomed higher above them than Vehk might have believed any structure ever could. Ze clutched Mephala’s arm and looked around fearfully as they made their way past lines of irritated looking farmers, frantic-eyed couriers, mercenaries with all manners of fearsome weapons. They passed a vast variety of mer, tall and short, old and young, and the common feature they all bore was the weary expression on their faces.

Finally they reached the gate, which was made of iron and half-lowered. Two chimer guards stood before the formidable barrier, and Vehk had to pause to admire them, too; one was clad in armor of simple grey metal, but the other wore bonemold and was draped with Velothi livery more ornate than Vehk had ever seen. This decorated guard’s clothes were festooned with sigils, and seeing them made Vehk briefly recall something from a million years ago, the word ‘Dres’.

Mephala, too, seemed surprised to see these odd-looking soldiers barring her way. She pulled her arm from Vehk and marched forwards with a scowl.

“Halt!” The guard in grey armor called as she approached. “State your alliance and business!”

“Daughter of Mephala, returning with a recruit.” she replied curtly. “Who in Oblivion are you? What happened to the Nords?”

“We’re the Guild of Shouts, in league with the Honour-Guard of House Dres.”

“Mournhold’s guard? Bit lost, aren’t you? This is Ebonheart, s’wit.”

“Haven’t you heard, whore?” the decorated guard asked with a smirk. “House Dres has returned to Ebonheart. Queen Almalexia got herself named Dres’ Hortator and graciously reinstated our rule.”

Vehk’s breath caught at the name, but Mephala seemed outright irritated. She shifted her gaze between the two, scowling. “You must take me for some lackwit. What, the Nords just let Dres march in here?

“They’re all off fighting in Skyrim.” said the first. “It’s not like they--”  

There was an abrupt cry from the top of the wall. “They’re coming back!” a guard shouted down. “Open the gates, they’re marching back in from the west! Open the gates and get everyone you can out-- this is going to be a massacre!”

Vehk opened hir mouth to ask just _what_ was going on, but before ze could even begin to speak Mephala had taken hir arm and was dragging hir into the city. Throngs of people were already rushing for the gate, fearful of the Nord’s wrath, and Vehk had to cling to Mephala for dear life in fear that ze’d get swept off.

They fought their way through the crowd, through alleyways and shortcuts, and managed to reach the front gate, where the most curious and the bravest of Ebonheart’s citizens were massing in terror-stricken awe. Vehk strained to see over their heads-- marching through the gate was a host of shaggy humans, lead by a staggeringly tall man with a crimson beard and a frightful ram-horn helmet. A Nordic Chieftain, he had to be, with his steel-clad army behind him-- even as Vehk watched he opened his mouth and released a word that shook the very street.

“Back, Vehk!” Mephala’s arms were around hir and she was pulling hir back, for the living mass of mer had recoiled violently in fear. Vehk allowed her, and they ended up pressed into the alcove of a building, facing the backs of countless chimer.

“What’s going on?” Vehk asked in a whisper.

“I have no idea,” Mephala hissed in reply, “But it’s not good. No good at all. We don’t want to get tangled up in this.”

“Are those the Nords?”

“Yes, I think it’s--”

“ _CHEMUA_.”

A gasp rippled through the crowd. Someone’s voice, a woman’s, rang out loud and clear through even the frightened murmurs. Vehk clutched Mephala’s arm and listened as the mer around them exchanged anxious whispers with one another.

“That can’t be!”

“What is she thinking?”   
  
“She’s not--”

“By Azura, we’re going to die--”

“Who’s that?”

“Don’t you know?”

“Who else would it be?”

“That’s Lady Almalexia,” said someone near them, grinning, “And she’s standing up to the Nords!”

Vehk was gone before Mephala could catch hir. The crowd was thick but ze fought tooth and nail to make hir way through them, elbowing and knocking people out of the way in hir desperation to see what was happening. As ze grew closer to the street the voices of two mighty warriors grew distinct and bold in hir ears:

“... were left undefended and they called upon both House Dres and Mournhold for help."

"You had no right to take the Shouts!"

"Their commander was off in Skyrim, muthsera-- who else was meant to lead them?"

Vehk finally burst out to the front of the crowd and froze. Two beings stood opposite each other in the centre of the main street-- the same bearded king as before on one side, and facing him, clad in ebony, a woman with hair like fire and a defiant expression.

Vehk watched, as Jarl Chemua grimaced and rolled his broad shoulders back. “"You dance a fine line, little elf. But fine-- so you've had your play at power. This ends now. Shouts! Slaughter every Dres elf in the city."

“Do not listen to him.” Almalexia called over him. “Stay your swords and obey me!”  

“I am the Jarl,” Chemua boomed, his voice echoing, “And as the Jarl of Mournhold I order you--”

“I am their _Queen_ ,”  Almalexia’s voice rang clearly over his. “And as their Queen, I declare you unworthy as a Jarl and a Nord. I challenge you for the title, Chemua!"

“Vehk!” Mephala seized hir from behind and dragged hir backwards. Vehk reacted on impulse, twisting violently in a desperate attempt to escape her grasp.

“No! That’s her!” ze cried. “That’s Ayem!”

“We have to get away!”

“Ayem--”

“Silence--”

“ _MOTHER AYEM!_ ”

Mephala pushed a hand over hir mouth and ze found it suddenly impossible to breathe. Hir cry had failed to seize the monarch’s attention, but it had not gone unnoticed-- a chimer next to them had heard, and he suddenly lifted his fist, echoing, “Mother Ayem!” And then the cheer spread like wildfire throughout the dazzled chimer, each calling “Mother Ayem!” rapturously, with long-stifled hope in their voices. To the city of Ebonheart, so long strangled under Hoag’s grip, it must have sounded like music; but to Vehk, trapped in Mephala’s grasp, it seemed more like a sonnet of despair.

“What are you doing?” ze sobbed.

“Saving your life.” Mephala hissed back.

“That was _her_ , that was Ayem, she--”

“She does not care about you!” Mephala finished for hir, venomous. “Do you truly think that she cares about you whatsoever? She hasn’t even tried to speak to you!”

Vehk, wracked with grief, slumped into Mephala with a sharp sob. Of course what she said was true, ze knew it, and yet ze couldn’t accept it. After losing so much in so short a time it seemed unjust that ze should lose Ayem too. But ze lost the will to struggle and let Mephala drag hir, sobbing, far from the ecstatic crowd.

They came to sit on a flight of stairs and Mephala grasped hir chin. “Vehk.” ze said sternly, “Stop weeping.”

“I’m sorry,” ze replied weakly, trying to wipe hir eyes with hir robes.

“You are a Daughter of Mephala. You are an orphan, the gutter-scum, the downtrodden.”

“I know.”

“Her kind does not care for us. _She_ does not care for us.”

“...”

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Mephala sighed. “There, there. We look out for each other. This is not a bad thing. We will survive, and I will show you how.”

Vivec turned hir head away. Ze knew that Mephala spoke the truth, and yet--

Hir thoughts were cut short when the daedra’s sweet lips met hir own. Hir eyes widened and ze pulled back blushing, but Mephala simply laughed.

“Your first time? Oh, well. You’d best get used to that too, my child.” she stood and offered out her hand. “You’ve much to learn yet. But worry not-- I’ll teach you. Put your old thoughts behind you with that netchiman’s life. You’ve much to learn yet. Walk with me.”

Vehk bit hir lip and wiped hir eyes. In the distance ze could still hear chaos, shouting, what ze would one day realize to be the sound of a dead city learning to breathe anew. There was hope in the breath of the Velothi this moment. If Azura had forsaken them, Boethiah’s arch-priestess had today inspired them again. But Vehk was too tired of betrayal at this point to share in their hope, too pure for the Prince of Betrayal and too filthy for the Lady of Roses. There was only one path left for hir to tread.

So ze took Mephala’s hand and they walked to the brothel together.

 

* * *

 

 

_The first spirit threw his arms about her and hugged his knowledge in tight. The netchiman's wife became soaked in the Incalculable Effort. The egg was delighted and did somersaults inside her,--_

_The second spirit was too aloof and acted above his station so much that he was driven off by a headache spell._

_The third spirit, At-Hatoor, came down to the netchiman's wife while she relaxed for a while under an Emperor Parasol. His garments were made from implications of meaning, and the egg looked at them three times. 'There is a proverb,' At-Hatoor said, and then he left.--_

_The fourth spirit came with the fifth, for they were cousins. They could ghost touch and probed inside the egg to find its core..._

_And then the sixth spirit appeared, the Black Hands Mephala, who taught the Velothi at the beginning of days all the arts of sex and murder. Its burning heart melted the eyes of the netchiman's wife and took the egg from her belly with six cutting strokes. The egg-image, however, could see into what it had been before in ancient times, when the earth still cooled, and was not blinded.--_

**__... At this the egg laughed. 'I am given too much to bear so young. I must have been born before.'_ _ **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween! Many thanks to Karol (voryn-dagoth on tumblr) for beta reading this chapter; you are my dearest friend and I owe you so much. "Fountain of Forgetfulness" is a reference to ao3 user Damage-Over-Time's wonderful Fountain of Forgetfulness fic of the same fandom.


	5. IV, Part Two

_1E411, Suns Height_

 

* * *

 

 

Sotha Serlyn was the second oldest of the Sotha children and the figurative ‘black guar’ of the family. From the time he could walk he’d been disobedient and restless, frequently escaping the watchful eyes of his older relatives to embark upon grandiose adventures, many of which came almost at the expense of his life or limbs. This was much to the dismay of his demure, solemn father, and his chronically fretful mother-- Serlyn was often scolded for his roaming as a consequence, but he never seemed to find reason to listen to his usually preoccupied parents. He stole waterbreathing charms and would spend days underwater, or he’d lope off into the wildnerness and remain absent until a justifiably irate Sotha Sil was able to track him down. Much at odds with House Sotha’s religious and pacifistic philosophies, Serlyn’s soul belonged to the Warrior whose sign he was born under, and even those who loved him most grieved long into the night for his restless ways.

There seemed only one person who could break into his wayward spirit and that person was Almalexia. When he was seven years old and already showing signs of the wanderlust he’d stumbled upon his brother being teased by the flame-headed girl who came every summer from Mournhold to learn the arts of battle-magic. She’d wanted to show off some play of the sword she’d learned, it seemed, but Sil, who was twelve years old then and stubbornly arrogant, had dismissed her with the audacious claim that swordcraft was for brutes and idiots. She’d been about to beat him over the head with a wooden saber when Serlyn had charged out of the bushes and asked her to show him instead. Almalexia had happily taught him how to wield the blade and he’d fallen in love immediately. From then on, those months Almalexia would visit from her royal home were the few where Serlyn would always be close at hand, and he would scarce let a week go by where he did not challenge her to a duel out by the lagoon. She let him win, sometimes, and then she’d teach him whatever tricks she’d learned from her guards, and Serlyn would bask in those moments, until she inevitably abandoned him to spend time with Sil.

When Serlyn was fourteen, Sotha Sil received a letter and left for Mournhold to comfort Almalexia in the face of her mother’s death. Then news came that Sil would never return, and Serlyn had taken his role by his father’s side in the council chambers. To everyone’s great surprise, including even his own, he found that he quite enjoyed this position of respect and responsibility. Authority suited his arrogance and he flourished as Second Councillor, out of the shadow of his elder brother at last.

By the time Sotha Sil returned, Sotha Serlyn had grown into a different creature altogether-- charming, confident, bold and almost cocky. Though he’d greeted Sotha Sil with all the love of a younger brother, he soon seemed almost irate to have his elder steal his assumed position in the spotlight, becoming more erratic and distant over the week of the Telvanni Divorce Council. And when it was revealed that ‘a word from Azura’ meant that Sotha Sil would be made the new Second Councillor of House Sotha, effectively usurping Serlyn’s position, he fell back into his wandering ways and vowed never to lie in the shadow of another again.

Serlyn became distant, secretive, leaving for days and only returning in the night to exchange secretive words with the few he brought himself to trust. Over the years he grew more and more a stranger to his House-- until, one fateful evening, he left on an ‘errand’ and never returned.

Everyone had their theories on where the youngest son of House Sotha had disappeared to. Many, including Sotha Sil, believed that he’d abandoned the family to pursue a life as a sellsword somewhere in the northernmost reaches of Vvardenfell. Sotha Sil’s mother, a fretful woman at the best of times, was convinced that her second son had fallen into some great tragedy and now lay rotting at the bottom of a lagoon. Others thought he’d been kidnapped, or called to Azura’s service on holy Holamayan. There was even speculation that Sotha Kaisa, Serlyn’s twin sister and frequent scapegoat for his roguish ways, had murdered him for whatever outlandish reason the gossiper could come up with. But with a dearth of facts and only the long-dulled grief of an otherwise close-knit House to dull the pain, it seemed futile to wonder at causes, they were left with no choice but to move on.

Tonight was the one year anniversary of Serlyn’s disappearance, a date that coincidentally marked exactly seven years since Sotha Sil had left Mournhold. Though always kept busy as the Second Councillor to the House, he’d spent most of that day in the shrine with his mother, for she insisted upon using the day to pray that Serlyn’s soul would be returned to them. His mother was a rotund and busty woman, unusually thick-set for even a settled chimer, but she was dearly beloved of her husband and had recently fallen pregnant again. Chimer had a difficult time reproducing, often taking decades for a marriage to yield even a single child-- the fact that House Sotha would soon have four full-blooded heirs in just four decades was taken as a sign of their prosperity and much celebrated. And though even she had spent most of the past few months in the bliss of a woman with child, Serlyn’s disappearance weighed heavy on her soul, and she’d seemed grateful beyond words to to have her eldest son by her side as they knelt together in front of Azura’s and offered forth quiet prayers to their patron Prince.

They rejoined the world at duskfall. Her arm in his, Sotha Sil walked with his mother out of the shrine and into the darkening village, not a word passing between them. Few other House members seemed disturbed by this sombre anniversary-- by the shore a fishing party was attempting to drag a whale into the shallows, and wizards had rushed out to help with levitation spells at the ready. Fires burned bright in most windows, the air was still hot from the sun’s beams, the breeze carried a faint honey-smell of flowering gold kanet. A lovely scene for such a sad day.

Sotha Sil left his mother at the door with a kind word, denying the offer of dinner, and hurried off to the small yurt at the outskirts of the village he’d erected as his residence-- it had once been his grandmother’s, but she’d passed just four years ago, leaving it unclaimed. The rest of the Sotha family was content to live in the shrine annex, but Sil needed solitude the way most mer need sleep. The little structure was his refuge and knowing that he could always retreat to its lonesome safety brought him no small amount of peace.

It was this peaceful yurt that he returned to now. The prayer had lasted from dawn until dusk and he hadn’t eaten today, but his mind had already fled to matters of far greater importance than physical sustenance. His father’s recent proposal most troubled him-- Sotha Sohleh believed that House Sotha would benefit from branching out, and he’d had the idea of offering Kaisa to one of the yet unwedded Dagoths as a spouse. Sotha Sil had rejected this idea on grounds that his little sister was not a trade good to be married off against her will, but Sotha Sohleh seemed adamant, and now Sil was contemplating whether or not he should tell her of the plan. She was as free-spirited as her twin and would probably be furious to hear the idea.

The saying went: ‘think of a bad daedra and he shall be drawn to you’. Perhaps certain members of House Sotha were daedra in disguise, because when Sotha Sil returned to his tent he found Kaisa already waiting for him.

“Sister,” he greeted her, mildly surprised. “Good evening.”

“Not such a good evening,” she replied with half a shrug. She was a stocky girl, with a dark complexion and a snub-nose which had been permanently squished by a childhood fall. She crouched now by a small animatron that Sil had halfway assembled, looking it over with her heavy-lidded eyes hidden by a mess of unrestrained black hair.

Sotha Sil sighed and sat next to her, stretching his prosthetic legs out in front of him. “No,” he agreed quietly, “Not such a good evening. It’s one year since he left.”

“How is mother?”

“In mourning. She does not understand why Azura will not answer her prayers, but refuses to believe he lives yet. She’s troubled.”

Kaisa grunted and poked at the animatron with a fingertip. “I thought mothers were meant to know these things. He’s not dead. What about father, have you spoken to him this day?”

“Before dawn.” A moment’s pause. “He suggested that I begin the mourning process myself, as he believes that we’ll never see him again… wherever he is.”

“Is that what he said.” Kaisa’s voice had an odd tone to it.

Sil, frowning, shifted over to her. He reached out and rested a hand on her shoulder. “Kaisa, he may be right.”

“He’s not.”

“We don’t know where Serlyn is. And surely he’d have sent word by now, if he ever did plan to return.”

“Sil,” Kaisa spoke abruptly, “Would Father ever lie to us?”

Sotha Sil, caught off guard, didn’t reply to that, so she added quickly. “I mean… he’s the head of our house, the Holy Hand of Azura chosen to guide us. Surely she wouldn’t lead us astray. We do all we do for her sake and certainly we love her enough that she wouldn’t let evil dwell among us. I don’t mean to sound doubtful, do not be angry. But would he ever? Would he lie to us?”

She looked at him, seeming fervent and almost afraid. Sotha Sil let out a long breath… and nodded.

She shuddered and curled up, hugging her knees tight to her chest. Sotha Sil squeezed her shoulder. “Kohti,” he said gently, “What’s happened?”

She looked away. “I… I was practising my chameleon spell in the shrine today.” she began, “And I overheard Father-- he was speaking to someone. I didn’t wish to eavesdrop, but he mentioned Serlyn’s name and I couldn’t resist. He said thus: he’ll send someone to Mournhold to retrieve him once he arrives.”

Sotha Sil’s breath stopped. “Mournhold?”

“Mournhold!” Kaisa suddenly grabbed Sil by the arm. “He’s going to Mournhold, Seht, I just know it. And Father knows too. It makes sense, does it not? He was in love with Lady Almalexia as a child, he’d think that she’ll remember him, or remember you, and he can earn a fancy title in the palace or something. He used to always talk about how he deserved to be a duke or a king. Mercenary-- that’s stupid! That’s not Serlyn. He loves fighting but he’s no mercenary!”

“You aren’t suggesting he intends to court _The Queen_?”

“Well… no. But he’s gone to Mournhold, I am certain of it.”

Sotha Sil frowned at that. His first instinct was to trust his sister’s judgement, and if she was indeed right… this was troubling, deeply troubling.

“What would you have me do?” he finally asked.

“Go to Mournhold.” Kaisa replied firmly. “And find Serlyn. Bring him home, Sil. I hate to see mother mourning the way she is, I hate whatever has caused father to keep secrets from us. And I would hate, more than anything, for our baby brother or sister to grow up knowing the misery we feel now.”

Sotha Sil thought of Mournhold, of its treacherous politics and its scowling Nords, and of Chemua the blighter, and Almalexia, and he had a sudden vivid image come to mind, of a pit of serpents devouring his little brother whole.

“I’ll go.” he promised.

***

Mournhold always turned into a veritable oven over Sun’s Height and even its guards looked distinctly annoyed to be stuck outside in the summer’s wrath. One a Nord and one a steel-clad chimer, they greeted Sotha Sil with frowns and questioned him so curtly that it felt almost like an attack.

“Why do you enter the city?” the Nord demanded.

“Business with the queen.” Sotha Sil replied, frowning.

“You alone, then?”

“Yes.”

“What business do you have with Lady Almalexia?”

“House Dagoth’s business.”

The Nord didn’t seemed fazed by that, but the chimer guard, hostile though he was, knew as well as anyone that it was probably best not to heckle an emissary from the House of Healers. He uttered a curt word to his companion and they finally let Sotha Sil pass.

The guards at the palace were similarly disgruntled by the hot weather. Sotha Sil was ushered into the throngs of mer milling about the castle courtyard, all waiting for their chance to speak with the queen of Mournhold. Farmers, mercenaries holding various trophies, minor ambassadors for equally minor houses, even the occasional Nord-- peasants and commoners from all walks of life waited here to present their complaints to their Queen. Sotha Sil took his place among them and adjusted his frost-enchanted robe around himself idly.

The more he watched the townspeople, the more he began to suspect that a sort of change had come over the city. It was much closer to the Mournhold he’d once arrived in than the one he’d left seven years ago-- the Mournhold of Almalexia’s mother, not that of the tempestuous queen. Perhaps her temper had evened out in the time he’d been away, he reasoned to himself; the Almalexia he’d known since childhood had been passionate, short-tempered, capricious, and even prone to fits of mania that bordered on soul-sickness, which Sotha Sil would faithfully calm her from. Granted, they hadn’t communicated since he’d unexpectedly decided to remain in Ald Sotha. He assumed that she would be angry with the ‘betrayal’, proud as she was, but perhaps the change in the city reflected the change of its Queen, a change into someone calmer and more compliant with their Nordic occupiers.

Logically, such a change would be a good thing, and yet Sotha Sil couldn’t help but feel distinctly unsettled by the possibility. What had happened to his friend?

His musings were interrupted by the long creak of the door. An elderly Nord, one that Sotha Sil recognized as the same steward who’d been serving Chemua seven years prior, walked out and cast a glance around the waiting petitioners. When he saw Sotha Sil his eyebrows arched, and he raised a hand, beckoning: “You, ser. Who art thou?”

Sotha Sil approached him. “Sotha Sil of House Sotha. I seek audience with the Queen.”

“Follow me.”

The steward lead him through the familiar hallways of the castle, up a curling flight of stairs and to the entrance of the throne room. The guard standing at attendance opened the door and Sotha Sil followed the steward inside.

Almalexia sat at the head of the great council-table, her head turned away as she spoke in hushed words to a heavily-armed Nord with a grim expression. Sotha Sil’s heart leapt briefly in his chest-- in the seven years they’d been separated she’d only grown more beautiful. Her hair fell free down her back in that peculiar half-ponytail popular in Skyrim, and the light western-style gown she wore accented the ample curves of a body that had by all looks settled into its plump femininity. She was an exquisite picture, but there was something about her posture-- perhaps the way she pressed back into her throne, the resigned slump of her shoulders and the fact that her gaze rested on the Nord’s shoes as she addressed him-- that jarred him. She was indeed a far cry from the tempestuous nix-hound of a Queen that he’d left. Cowed, somehow, or tamed.

“Your next audience, My Queen,” announced the steward. “Sotha Sil of minor House Sotha.”

Almalexia jerked, raising her face. Her eyes widened-- but only momentarily, and then she assumed an expression that was perfectly cordial, complete with a gentle smile. “Sotha Sil, my old friend.” she said warmly. “What brings you to my court?”

Honesty was somewhat of a faux pas in Mournhold; fortunately, Sotha Sil had already prepared an excuse that would suit his ends. He stepped forwards, returning her smile as formally as he could. “House Sotha offers you its humblest greetings, and also extends to you the well wishes of Great House Dagoth, whom we’ve been allied with for the past seven years. But our blessings are only the first offer we bring-- the second is a marriage proposal.”

That seemed to catch her interest; she raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“My two younger siblings, Sotha Serlyn and Sotha Kaisa, twins of remarkable talent and noble standing in our House, and both yet unwedded. House Sotha would propose Serlyn as your husband, if you would take him, and Kaisa as the Nordic Jarl Chemua’s lady wife, if he would have her likewise.”

It was a ridiculous offer, of course, but a shadow crossed Almalexia’s face at the idea. “I see.” she said stiffly, after a moment. “Thank you most graciously for the offer. I shall submit it to the Jarl for consideration. Is that all?”

“Well, yes--”

“Good. Return to me tomorrow and I will present you with a formal answer on behalf of Jarl Chemua.” she turned to the steward. “Have Serjo Sotha posted in his old quarters for the night. Have the Shouts assign him a pair of able-bodied guards and inform the staff that he’s welcome to our kitchen and Library. Sotha Sil… you are dismissed.”

The steward made to usher him off, and Sotha Sil obediently turned to leave. But he caught one last sight of his old friend as he did-- her head was bowed, she fidgeted in her throne, and the Nord standing beside her glared in a way that gave him a profound sense of unease.

Something truly had changed here.

***

“Wake up. Sil, wake up.”

Sotha Sil groaned, slowly sitting up in the silky covers. “What…”

“Stand up.” someone hissed at him. “Get on your feet.”

His pulse spiked, waking him at once. The room was completely dark, but he did as ordered, movements slow and cautious. The moment his feet were firm on the ground he raised his hands and cast a magelight that immediately illuminated his accoster--

And then Almalexia slapped him in the face.

He reeled back, stunned by the blow-- but she seized his face in her hands and kissed him hard on the mouth. He barely had time to realize what was happening before she pulled away and hit him in the chest, sending him straight back into the wall.

“You left me!” she almost shouted as he regained his balance. “I needed you and you left me!”

Her hair was dishevelled, she was wearing a torn robe, and her eyes were wide, crazed, as if she were on the verge of soul-sickness. “Calm yourself.” Sotha Sil ordered her, voice soft.

“How _dare_ you--”

“I’m sorry, Ayem. But I’m here now. Please calm down.”

Her fists had been raised as if she were about to strike him-- but she lowered them. Abruptly she slumped onto the edge of his bed, hugging herself, trembling violently, her face averted. He felt nausea climb into his throat and sat down next to her.

“You have no idea.” she murmured, venomous. “You have no idea what it’s been like. What I’ve done--”

“I’m sorry.”

“He’s a monster. Chemua’s a monster. I hate him, Sil, I hate him so much--”

“Hush. Ayem. Calm yourself. I’m here. Forget him.”

She sucked in a deep breath and nodded. “Fine.” she croaked. “Fine. You’re right. He’s nothing.”

“That’s right. Don’t fret over him. He’s nothing.”

“He’s worse than nothing. He’s dead. I’m going to kill him.”

“Well--”

“He’s dead, he’s so dead, and you’re gonna help me kill him.”

“Uh.” Sotha Sil coughed and fell silent, watching the fervent woman. Her eyes still had that look of distant soul-sickness about them, she stared unfocused into the distance and her hands twitched as if longing for a sword. Her robe was slipping open, falling down her shoulders and revealing that a plume of purple bruises bloomed over one breast.

“Yes, fine.” Abruptly she drew her robe around herself and stood, pacing in front of his bed as if it were a council chamber. “It’s been seven years and he thinks he’s removed my claws.” she mused aloud. “But he’s underestimated me. I am The Queen, I am _Boethiah_. Did he truly think he could defeat me? Idiot human! He’s that filthy Altmer Auri’el, and I’m pretending to be his slut Trinimac, I’ll wear that skin, I could wear it for years. But I am Boethiah and though I wear the skin of my enemies I’m just waiting to sink my knife into his back! I have the perfect weapon to do it with, too, he’ll never see it coming--”

“Almalexia, you grow nonsensical again. Are you okay?”

“Right, right. I’ll… let me explain.” she took a deep breath and ceased pacing, hugging herself tightly again. In the magelight Sotha Sil could pick out more bruises, some around her neck and on the curve of her hip revealed by the tattered gown.

“A few months ago, the High King who laid claim to Morrowind was killed in battle.” Almalexia began, her voice suddenly calm. “With his lands and power unclaimed, his seat of Windhelm was swiftly taken. But his armies and banner-clans were discontented and would not pledge allegiance to this new contender.

“As it happened, the High King that was defeated was the elder brother of Jarl Hoag of Ebonheart. Hoag saw his opportunity. He loathes Morrowind and the possibility of returning to Skyrim was too much for him to resist. So he got together his troops and organized an alliance, with Ysmir of Blacklight and... and Chemua. In the middle of Sun’s Height, when Dunmeth pass is at its widest and free of snow, they’ll push through from the east and take Windhelm by surprise.

“But they need all the force and resources they can get. Hoag’s taking virtually all of his soldiers north, and Chemua’s bled the Shouts for every Skyrim-loyal soldier he could find. They’re heading north soon... Tomorrow, in fact.”

“I’m unsure where you go with this,” Sotha Sil interrupted uneasily.

“Listen to me, Sil. Chemua thinks he’s broken my spirit. Foolish… idiot brute. So he’s left me in charge of Mournhold while he’s gone. Oh, not without supervision, of course-- he’s assigned me a ‘Housecarl’ to spy on me. Besides, he’s left a close and trusted friend to keep an eye on me.” she grinned abruptly. “Dres Khizumet’e.”

“The Dres heir?”

“He came to us a year or so after you left. Said that he’d had a falling-out with his House and wanted to seek employment with our guard. It’s amazing what a little Telvanni bug musk and a bottle of Dagoth brandy can do, isn’t it? Within no time he and Chemua were best of friends. Chemua even named him Second Commander of the Guild of Shouts for his hard work and many talents. Chemua’s sleazy, he thinks he’s good at subterfuge. He had Khiz cozy up to me-- sort of a replacement for you, but one that would deliver all our conspiracies to him. He didn’t anticipate that Khiz is Velothi before all else. He wanted the Nords gone as much as I do.”

“You had him become a triple agent.” Sotha Sil found himself tugging at his hair, anxiety wrought in his face. If he’d had any lingering fears that time had dulled Almalexia’s spirit, they were immediately dispelled-- replaced with fears for her well-being, and perhaps for her judgement.

“Listen!” she turned on him and seized his hand in hers. “Trust me, it’s not absurd. I know it sounds like I’ve lost my wits, hah, but I haven’t! With Hoag gone Ebonheart’s going to be utterly undefended. Ebonheart was owned by House Dres before the Nords drove them out. Do you not think that they’d be eager to return?”

“What are you planning?”

“Dres Khizumet’e has been in contact with them. It’s all agreed-- as soon as Chemua leaves, a combined force of Mournhold’s Shouts and House Dres’ militia will make west and take Ebonheart. Khizumet’e can lead the Shouts, he’s Second Commander, and House Dres has agreed to name me Hortator so I can lead their army. And we have an excuse and everything, we’re gonna say that Ebonheart was threatened by the Dwemer so we _had_ to intervene! And if everything goes well, Ebonheart will be made an independent city-state again, as it once was, free of the Nords!”

Sotha Sil searched her face desperately. She still had that soul-sick look to her eyes, but he could tell that she was deathly serious. Her grip on his hands was tight enough to hurt.  

“You’re declaring war.” he said flatly.

“I am.”

“And what of Mournhold?”

“Chemua hasn’t the forces or the excuse to do anything. As I said, he left the city under my rule, I’m in charge, I’m allowed to do this. Once my Housecarl is taken care of I can do whatever I please.”

Sotha Sil studied her face for several moments. “You frighten me.” he finally confessed. “Almalexia, you’re my oldest friend and despite my absence I’ve never ceased to love you. But this-- this is reckless, even by your standards. You plan to go to war, foreswear your own Great House Indoril for a hoard of slavers and a city that isn’t even yours. What has happened to you to drive you to such lengths?”   

She let go of his hands and drew back. A shadow had crossed her face, and it was several moments before she next spoke:

“Sotha Sil. If we ever grow apart, if I ever learn to hate you, and I desire nothing more than for you to suffer and tear yourself apart… then I will tell you what has happened to me. I will tell you what you abandoned me to, here in Mournhold-Turned-Coldharbour, what evils I was forced to endure in the name of survival while you frolicked idle-minded in your home. But I am merciful and I still love you, too. I will not tell you what has driven me to this point; I simply ask you to trust me, as your Queen and as your friend, that what I do is necessary and inevitable. This is not a matter of pride. The time has come at last for us to be rid of our invaders. I intend to free my city from its tyrants, even if it costs me my life.”  

Sotha Sil let out a long breath. “I confess... I'm unsure whether I’m scared for you or of you.”

She smiled wryly. “I’ll need someone to play custodian of Mournhold while I’m gone. You betrayed me, but I’m willing to forgive you. You’re my dearest friend and I trust you. Will you help me?”

It was a long moment before Sotha Sil replied. “... I cannot.” he answered, reluctantly. “My duty is to my House. I’m no ruler. I’m sorry, Ayem, but there’s other things I need to do.”

“Fine.” she turned away abruptly, and he’d known her long enough to catch the anger in her posture.

“Almalexia--”

“You’ve given your answer. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Chemua expects me in his room to bid him farewell.”

And like that, she was gone, and for not the first time Sotha Sil found himself in dread of the future.

***

“Wool or silk, sera?”

“Wool. And my name is Chemua. Sarah is a lass’ name.”

Almalexia huffed and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Forgive me, my Jarl. But it’s Sun’s Height, wool will overheat you. Surely silk is the wiser option?”

“Hoag will laugh himself sick if I arrive clad in bug secretions.” Chemua stood by the large mirror that hung in his chambers, clad only in breeches and carefully grooming his rust-red beard. “Bring me the wool one.”

Obediently Almalexia cast aside the silk tunic and flitted over to him with the wool one. He paused in his grooming so that she could slide it over his bare shoulders, and she trailed her hands over his broad chest deliberately as she set the garment in its place. “You’ll catch heat-sickness if you travel while wearing wool, you know.” she chided him softly, “You should wear something lighter in the summer. I’m going to have the tailor craft you something lighter while you’re gone.”

“You aren’t my wife, pup.”

“I could be.”

He snorted and resumed braiding his beard, refusing to dignify that with a response. Almalexia sighed softly, just enough to be audible, and finished lacing his tunic at the front.

“Will I be permitted to bid you goodbye at the gates?” she asked innocently.

“Has your brain rotted? Do you think I’m going to permit my men to see some elf kissing up to me? Think before you speak for once, foolish girl.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’d best be.” He finished braiding his beard and turned to face her. She was still naked from the night before and the rough feel of his loose-spun breeches against her thighs make her flinch. But she forced herself to relax against him, resting her head against his chest with a melancholy sigh.

“I wish you didn’t have to go.” she whispered. “I’ll miss you.”

“Don’t try to sweet-talk me, little elf. You’ll get to rule the city while I’m away. I know how much you love your little morsels of power.”

“Power doesn’t warm my bed or fulfill my needs, my Jarl.”

“Well, then.” His hand slid under her rump. “Perhaps I’d best leave you some memories to warm it in my stead.”

Once he’d had his way with her and finished, he laced up his breeches and returned to the mirror to put the final touches on his travel outfit. She lay on the bed, watching him in silence as she always did, taking in every aspect of his body. The way he favored his left leg and put his weight on it. The way he avoided flexing his fingers in a certain way, or how he occasionally itched at an old scar near the base of his neck, one he’d procured when he was just a teen. He was more than half a century old, a long time for a human to live, and his body was beginning to betray the signs. Almalexia lay still on the bed, watching him, and envisioned using his sword to cleave him limb from limb.

The first shafts of dawn filtered through the horizon. Chemua finished dressing, grabbed his sword from the dresser, and left without so much as a word to her. just as expected.

Almalexia sat up and crossed to the side of the room. Her bed-gown lay rumpled and torn where he’d earlier ripped it in his haste to satisfy himself, but she picked it up and donned it all the same, then walked over to admire herself in the same mirror he’d used. She looked innocuous, or so she thought to herself. A plump and dull-eyed elf, her hips crowned with bruises and passion-marks scattered across her neck. It was a pitiful sight-- but necessary, she reminded herself, necessary, and soon, over.

A grin split her face. She wrapped one of his cloaks around herself and hurried out of the room, heading out the door and walking north along the walls, to where she could watch the Nordic host depart. The sun had barely began to creep over the horizon, turning the surrounding saltrice fields in an ocean of fluttering gold and warming the skin on her face; behind her the city was bathed in creamy lilac light.

The final vestiges of Mournhold’s Nordic army, barely a few hundred soldiers, were lining up in two formal columns on either side of a massive war caravan that was stationed at the north gate. Those twenty-so carts were laden with food, dried saltrice from the lush Deshaan plains and carefully preserved kwama eggs; these supplies would feed Hoag’s more sizeable host during the campaign, and so it was essential that it was well protected from ashlanders and the Ra’athim raiders that plagued the roads.

At the start of the caravan she could see Chemua sitting astride a war-horse, fearsome in his great scarlet travel-cape and his horned steel helmet. As she watched. the Tongue turned his horse and let out a blasting thu’um that shook the air around them. It was a mighty beckons, one that was answered immediately-- with the crack of whips and the braying of imported ponies, the supply caravan started its crawl north, illuminated in all their Northern glory with the rising sun behind them.

“Serjo?” Dres Khizumet’e came up behind her, already clad in the ornamental armor of his House.

Almalexia turned and greeted him curtly. “Khizumet’e. My Housecarl?”

“Dead. Assassinated and hidden as you’ve ordered.”

“What about the portal?”

“In progress. It should be done by midday.”

“And House Dres is ready to move?”

“As soon as the portal opens, melady.”

“This is good news. We must move quickly-- Chemua will be making full haste to meet Hoag. He’s planning to sail immediately from Ebonheart-- with those ponies they’ll be departed by tomorrow night at the latest, headed up the inner sea. The sooner we take Ebonheart, the longer we’ll have before he’s capable of returning.”

“I assure you that our troops are ready and eager to return home.” Khizumet’e smiled thoughtfully. “We all are. House Dres will be forever in your favor, hortator.”

“I’m not the hortator yet.”

They looked out across the plains, to the long caravan of Nordic soldiers that trundled steadily west, already miniscule among grain-heavy saltrice plants. The air was warm, but Almalexia pulled Chemua’s cloak tight around her nonetheless. The sudden reality that this would indeed mean war had hit her like a blade to the gut. She found herself nervous, apprehensive… and excited beyond belief, alive in a way she hadn’t felt since she stood before her people and declared her intention to take the crown. For seven years she’d been locked in Coldharbour, and now it was as if she had the key to escape in her hand, in the form of rebellion and bloodshed to come. She was Boethiah, Queen in a line of Queens stretching back to the days of Veloth. She would lead her people to victory or meet her death trying.

She shook herself and looked back to Khizumet’e. “Are the Shouts ready?”

“They know we are preparing to march, though only some know to where. All we need is your address.”

“Call them to assembly. I’ll deliver my speech in an hour.”

She returned to her room and found her shield-bearer waiting for her, a Nord-blooded chimer and one of the Shouts, whom she’d taken a liking to after training together over the past months. He helped Almalexia pull the ruined bedrobes from her body and bound her breasts down before dressing her in soft underclothes of blight-moth silk, murmuring prayers to Boethiah all the while. Almalexia held her head high and courtly as he did, her lips pressed tight together to prevent herself from uttering a sound of pain. The breast-bindings were made almost unbearable with the many bruises Chemua had left across her chest, and each clumsy graze across a battered patch of flesh made her flinch involuntarily. Once the underclothes had been donned according to ceremony her attendant dressed her in her Queen’s armor, a beautiful ornamented cuirass with its heavy skirt of jade-colored adamantium, and ebony pauldrons with glass inlay that made them look more like crystal than armor. Her head was left bare of protection, with her hair heaped atop her head as if her skull was on fire, and golden disc-earrings hung from the base of her ears.

The end result was stunning. The meek and chubby girl that Almalexia had seen in the mirror was gone, replaced by a Velothi warrior-queen, an incarnate of Boethiah wrought out of gold and given emeralds for eyes. She only realized that she was grinning when her shield-bearer asked if she had thought of something funny.

It was time to address her warriors, she decided. Her coronation-sword had been hanging on the wall as decoration for years-- she reached up, grabbed it, and marched out the door.

Chemua’s steward was standing patiently at the door, clutching his usual list of paperwork for the day. The moment Almalexia walked out of his chambers he started on his list of matters requiring her attention-- only to stop at the sight of her and trail off, mouth hanging open.

“My Queen?” he finally choked out.

“My steward.” Almalexia replied pleasantly. “I’m required to leave the city for a short while. Sotha Sil will be serving as custodian in my absence. Please take all your concerns to him.”  

The steward, flabbergasted, attempted to choke out a reply. Almalexia simply smiled at him and marched on her way.

As promised, a majority of the Guild of Shouts had assembled in the palace courtyard, expressions ranging from confused to excited. When Almalexia emerged from the gate a hushed murmur rose from them, which she silenced by raising a single hand.

“I’ll speak curtly.” she called out, her voice echoing loud and clear across the yard. “Hoag has left Ebonheart undefended. We have received intelligence that our ancient enemies, the Dwemer, are planning to attack the city in its undefended state. Ebonheart has called on Mournhold for assistance, and House Dres has compassionately agreed to add its forces to our sister-city’s aid. By noon today we will march for Ebonheart and re-establish House Dres within the city. In Jarl Chemua’s absence, Dres Khizumet’e is now the First Commander of the Guild of Shouts, and I am your leader.”

A tense silence fell over the crowd. Almalexia scanned her soldiers, searching their faces, with a sudden anxiety in her heart. Had she overestimated their loyalty to her?

But it was a Nord who broke the silence. He raised his fist to her and called out, in thickly accented Chimeris-- “Hai Mourning-Hold, Lady Ayem!”

Calls of loyalty and triumph went out through the crowd and for the first time in a long time Almalexia felt truly powerful.

 

***

 

“Excuse me, muthsera? Ser…”

“Nh… what time is it?” Sotha Sil sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“One hour past midday.” The elderly Nord informed him, rather uncomfortably. “I didn’t wish to wake you, but audiences begin in an hour and there are some things you need to attend to beforehand.”

“Audiences?” Sotha Sil blinked at him. “What are you referring to?”

“It’s part of your duties,” the steward said weakly. “Or Almalexia’s duties, but since you’re acting as Mournhold’s custodian while she’s gone…”

“Wait. She’s gone?!”

“There’s also, um, the matter of Serjo--”

The door flew open and a very irate Indoril Nam charged in. “Sotha Sil!” he barked. “Care to explain, Sera, why _Indoril_ Almalexia just marched through Mournhold wearing _Dres_ bannering, with a _Dres_ army at her heels!?”

“She _what?!_ ”

“What do you have to say?!” Nam demanded.

Sotha Sil looked between the steward and the furious Indoril councilor. “I think,” he uttered, “I am going to murder her.”

***

 

In the end, just over three hundred Dres soldiers and two hundred Shouts commenced the march for Ebonheart. The portal had been opened at exactly midday and Dres’ guard had poured through like a torrent, ranks upon ranks of fearsome tattooed chimer wearing bonemold armor and brilliant war-plumes made from the scales of the lizard-men they’d conquered. They wielded spears, a flagrant insult to the sword-favoring Nords, and many had come prepared for the coup by decking themselves in banners depicting the sigils of House Dres and of their own family lines. They were an intimidating sight and an utterly foreign one, so brazenly Chimeri that even some of the Shouts balked at the sight of them. Accompanying them was a supply-train of Argonian slaves to carry their resources, and a handful of bold civilians to form the army's trail, clutching small relics from the ancestral home they couldn’t wait to return to.

Three Dres Councillors had also come. The Grand Councillor himself, a cousin of Khizumet’e’s who’d taken over when the latter left for Mournhold, was the first to approach Almalexia, and he carried with him an armful of beautiful Dres heraldry. Almalexia knelt humbly as he draped the hortator banners about her neck, and the other Councillors gave her their curt blessings, and with the official business all said and done they stood and marched immediately for Ebonheart.

It was the hottest part of the day at Sun’s Height. The air had been unusually clear this year and without the layer of ash to reflect the sun’s rays the heart of Morrowind had turned into an oven. Even with the natural heat resistance of the chimer Almalexia found herself sweltering in her heavy armor. She marched at the head of the procession alongside Khizumet’e, the three Dres councillors close behind. It would take twenty-four hours over two days in total to march to Ebonheart, with most of the travel being done at night, and because speed was of more essence than strength in this case Almalexia ordered them to march at haste.

They arrived at Ebonheart just after midnight two days after departing, exhausted yet determined. The single Nord manning the eastern guard-tower had seen their host approaching from a distance, but with only the bobbing magelights and the torches interspersed among the ranks visible against the pitch-black plains she’d assumed that it was simply a host of their own on their way to join Hoag’s push for the throne. So when the host arrived bearing not familiar human faces but the fierce scowls of chimer warriors, wearing the magnificent alien armor of Velothi tradition and carrying weapons at the ready, and demanded to be let in, she was utterly unprepared to answer. “I beseech thee to wait,” she stammered, and rushed off into the walls, leaving Almalexia and Khizumet’e standing at the front of the host exchanging tired but amused glances.

A few minutes later she returned with her commander, a bearded Nord man who looked similarly unprepared to deal with this situation. The commander at least had the dignity to hold his nervousness back and bark a question: “Who in oblivion are you?!”

“Who rules the city?” Almalexia demanded in return.

“Skyrim. Bhag Twin-Tongued.”

“We will speak with him. Open the gates.”

“You expect me to let a damned army in?” The commander exclaimed.

Almalexia drew her sword. Beside her, Khizumet’e raised his spear, and the sound of steel being readied rang out behind them. “Open the gates,” she repeated, “Or we shall see if Hoag left you with enough men to resist the might of House Dres. But I suspect you and I know both how that will turn out.”

The commander had gone pale. After a long moment’s silence he turned away and called out, “Open the gates!”

Ebonheart’s castle sat in the middle of a city that had once been the twin of Mournhold, though it’d been ransacked and rebuilt by its Nord invaders long since. The roads were cobbled in the western style and the sound of bonemold boots striking stone was enough to wake the swathe of the town they marched through. Wide-eyed chimer slowly began to emerge from the shadows, watching with a mixture of fear and awe as their long-lost clansmen marched along the main street. By the time they reached the vast plaza that sat before the castle their host was flanked by curious civilians, most wary and haggard in appearance, but with hope behind their glinting eyes.

Khizumet’e agreed to remain outside, orchestrating the bulk of the force as it divided to take over the near-empty Nord barracks. Almalexia took her own small group of both Dres soldiers and Shouts and entered the castle.

Apparently the commander had fled before warning his leader of the impending invasion, because she found Bhag sitting at a dining table, working through a platter of sweet-rolls. He was a young man, but stout and obviously well-fed, with a broad face and a thick blonde beard divided into forks. When Almalexia and her cohort entered the dining hall he simply looked up from his meal and blinked at them demurely, as if understanding precisely what was happening, but not being particularly bothered by it.

“Bhag Twin-Tongued?” Almalexia asked.

He grinned. “And thou must be Lady ‘Lex. What brings thee to Ebonheart, M’lady?”

“We’ve come to save you from the impending dwemer invasion.”

Bhag blinked. “What threat? There’s no…” and then it dawned on him.  

“House Dres is taking the city.” she told him, curtly. “As the Hortator of House Dres and on behalf of the new rulers of Ebonheart, I order you and all your militia to begone from the city by this coming dawn. Once the sun rises you will be subject to the mercy of those that your ancestors displaced and subjugated. So I would suggest you go, muthsera.”

Bhag didn’t look particularly pleased by this news. He turned to the single guard that stood beside him in full armor, frowning deeply now. “Housecarl, what numbers have we in our forces?”

“Just over fifty men.” The housecarl answered dutifully.

Considering this, Bhag took a sweetroll and bit it in half. “Very well.” he answered finally, standing up and tossing aside the pastry. “Ebonheart is yours. My cousin won’t be pleased, but I’ve never had a taste for leadership in the first place. Excuse me while I go don my travel-clothes!”

With that, the newly displaced ruler strode out of the room.

Half an hour later Almalexia and her guard stood beside the door as a procession of Nords exited the castle. Bhag marched at the front with his Housecarl, leading the last dredges of Ebonheart’s once mighty occupying force in a solemn parade towards the main gate. By now almost half the city had heard of the invasion and were gathering along the main street to watch. The crowd was still sleepy, and half in disbelief, but a murmur of excitement was quickly spreading among them as they came to terms with what had just happened.

Dres Khizumet’e was the one who opened the gate for them. Almalexia, from where she stood in the plaza, couldn’t see the procession exit-- but when there was the mighty _slam_ of the gate falling shut she knew that it was done, and the cheer that suddenly erupted from all observing was enough to confirm her beliefs.

The militia disbanded a that moment, swept up in the jubilee as citizens began to call out to Dres soldiers wearing the banners of their own lineages. Clans, families, siblings and cousins separated by a century and a half of occupation, had been reunited in a single bold gesture and they were now suddenly swept up in the utter joy of reunion. Someone hauled out a cart full of sujamma, drums and lutes kicked up, and the long-suppressed populace of Ebonheart burst as one into jubilant celebration, with all the passion and unrestrained triumphant joy that only the chimer could properly revel in.

The party lasted all night, and Almalexia, though exhausted beyond belief, stood in front of the palace and greeted the countless mer who wished to speak with her, dispensing greetings and blessings and promises wherever apropriate.

“Queen Almalexia?” a pretty chimeri woman in lavish garments came up to her, smiling.

“That’s I.”

“I am Mora Ilinalta Ra’athim, of clan Ra’athim.” said the woman, bowing deeply. “I wished to thank you personally for what you’ve done here. You’ve returned the city my ancestors built to Velothi rule; we of the Ra’athim will be forever grateful. I am the only one of my family that remains in Ebonheart now, but with this victory my brothers will return and we will be whole again. I am indebted to you with all my heart.”

“Stand straight, Ilinalta.” Almalexia smiled. “I am honored to be recognized by your esteemed clan.”

“Thank you, sincerely, Lady Ayem. Know that clan Ra’athrim’s halls are always open to you-- we would be honoured, in fact, if you deigned to visit with us tomorrow. But I shan’t bother you longer. Thank you, sera!” And the pretty Chimer stood upright, and kissed Almalexia sweetly on the cheek, and then swept back out into the crowd, leaving the Queen blushing despite herself.

Khizumet’e joined her a while later, with welcome gifts of baked kwama egg and flin to keep her energy up. “I’ve never seen me family so joyous.” he told her, looking half-drunk from happiness alone. “We are home.”

“I’m glad for you, truly.”

“I think… my father, his spirit will rest easy now. He’s so long wandered the necropolis of Tear. But he shall be proud of you and I, and he will rest.”

“Will you move his ashes here?” Almalexia asked curiously.

Khizumet’e shook his head. “Tear is a good home for us. We’ve made our fortune on slaves. Ebonheart is home for many, but Tear is the birthplace of our House. It is good to have Ebonheart back, but my father deserves to rest at home.”

“It is admirable, what you’ve done for those who share your name.”

“The love I have for my House is my essence and life. Is this not something you understand?”

Almalexia laughed, “No, it’s not. I was never close to House Indoril, and our bond ends at our name.”

Khizumet’e sighed “Then I pity you, melady. The most important part of a chimer’s identity, methinks, is the blood that runs through his veins.  It is why I so readily betrayed Chemua though he named me a friend. It is even why your Sotha Sil so readily betrayed you and went back to his Ald Sotha-- an act which you begrudge him for, though this makes the begrudging more understandable.”

“He chose them above I. I have the right to be offended.”

“You might as well have expected him to choose you over his right arm. To mer such as he and I our family is our blood and our reason to live. We would not betray that.”

“Perhaps.”

They stood in silence for a moment, watching the festivities. It must’ve been almost morning but the Chimer were still dancing, drinking and kissing strangers in their lust for newfound freedom.  

“Sotha Sil,” Almalexia said thoughtlessly, “Is a prophetic dreamer. Azura sends him visions of events and things to come. Shortly before my mother died, Azura appeared to him in his dream and told him that a Great Hortator would come and lead us to war against the Nords.”

Khizumet’e was looking at her curiously. “For the longest time,” she continued, “I believed that it was someone else, some hero that would come riding out of nowhere that we had to wait for. But what if….”

“It could be you.” Khizumet’e finished for her.

Almalexia grinned. The festivities, the flin, the exhaustion and the weight of all that had happened this day were making her light-headed, but she was ecstatic, and the idea of being a hero-- not only a Queen but a warrior, a champion of prophecy, the savior of her land… it was sweet as wine and filled her to the brim with strength. At that moment it felt as if she could’ve fought every single invader of her country single-handedly. She was powerful, untouchable.

“Perhaps you are this… Great Hortator.” Khizumet’e replied thoughtfully. “But it is nonsense to be thinking about prophecy now. There is war at hand. You still must fend off Chemua’s wrath, and methinks his wrath will be vast.”

A chill went through her, and she grimaced. “Chemua will be dealt with in due time.” she replied calmly. “With a supply caravan of that size it will take him several days to reach Blacklight. Besides, he hasn’t the forces to retake the city. Every elf in Ebonheart would stand against him if it came to that.”

“And what of Mournhold? It is your home.”

Almalexia closed her eyes and thought of her city, the people she’d sworn to protect. And then she thought of Chemua, livid with lust for revenge, forcing them into submission, the way she’d endured for seven harrowing years.

“I’ll protect Mournhold.” she replied, resolute. “Even if I have to kill him.”

***

The next week passed in a blur. Almalexia found herself caught up in a political whirlwind, communicating with an endless stream of officials, worried citizens, representatives of various Houses both great and minor. In particular the Ra’athim family took her attention almost incessantly. This was due mostly to the unexpected and soon resented return of fearsome Cruethys Ra’athim.

Within a day of the coup an impressive cohort of chimer had arrived at the gates, heavily armed and clad like barbarians. This turned out to be the Ra’athim raiders and they were lead by Cruethys. Cruethys was, mildly speaking, an unforseen thorn in Almalexia’s side. He was part of the old vein of chimer, those who had fled to the wilderness rather than bow to occupation, living in the plains as their ashlander cousins and waging a guerilla war against the Nords while Ebonheart and Mournhold bowed their meek heads. This defiance, bordering on stubbornness, had served them well in survival, but now it had a rather inconvenient effect-- namely, Cruethys seemed to be under the impression that Ebonheart was Morrowinds true capital, and the heir of the Ra’athim clan should rightfully bear the title of King. He and Almalexia had argued bitterly in their very first meeting together, and the dispute had almost ended in blows, only prevented by Ilinalta, who turned out to be invaluable in abating Cruethys’ fury.

The situation didn’t improve over the week. The matter of Ebonheart’s new leadership had quickly become a matter of controversy, with much of the city dividing into two camps as a result. Traditionally House Dres presided over Ebonheart the same way House Indoril presided over Mournhold; however, with Cruethys’ return there quickly arose a significant sect of traditionalists who wished to see Ra’athim installed as royalty and Cruethys named King, making Ebonheart its own independent city-state serving neither Nord nor Nord-whelp (the name Cruethys had politely given Almalexia). This sect encompassed several influential people, merchants and aristocrats and a large section of the Ra’athim clan itself. But others believed that Ebonheart would be better served pledging allegiance to Mournhold and Queen Almalexia-- including Ilinalta Ra’athim, who had been constantly by Almalexia’s side since the coup, attempting to persuade the rest of her family to their cause, with little success. Despite the best efforts of the pretty noblewoman, it seemed that Ebonheart and Mournhold were in immediate danger of sliding back into a bitter rivalry, and Almalexia was quickly beginning to fear that her strike at rebellion would be extinguished by the stubborn pride of a noble family.

In short, it was a mess.

By day eight she was at her wits’ end. She’d just left another fruitless argument with Cruethys and his cohort, and even House Dres, who’d chosen the middle route by proposing a city council to rule, were growing fed up with their squabbling. By now Khizumet’e had assumed his role as High Councillor of his House, but despite the bond he and Almalexia shared he was growing more and more preoccupied by managing the steady stream of nobles and retainers that was trickling into reclaimed Ebonheart. Almalexia suspected that it was only a matter of time before he attempted to banish her from the city, with our without the Ra’athim’s alliance, which concerned her, and only added to her animosity for Cruethys.

In fact, the only one more irate than she was Ilinalta, who seemed to have elected herself Almalexia’s representative in Ebonheart and had been acting accordingly. “They are fools!” she declared now, as they walked through the chilly halls of Ebonheart’s palace and towards the sweltering day outside. “Forgive them, my Queen, for their ignorance. Ra’athim is no enemy of yours. These men have more violence than wisdom in their hearts.”

“Calm yourself, sera.” Almalexia chided her. “If Cruethys cannot be persuaded, I will be unable to consider the clan an ally either. War is coming, and Mournhold and Ebonheart will need to be united or we shall both perish.”

“Cruethys hates you.” Ilinalta sniffed. “For the fact that you are a woman, most likely. He has always held a sense of loathing for the gentler sex. And such is regrettably common in our clan, women are not even permitted to deliver our clan’s name to our sons. Cruethys likely resents that a simple woman succeeded in freeing Ebonheart when he himself failed.”

Almalexia reached out and gently squeezed her arm. “Human and mer alike, men have always underestimated us. But this is to our advantage. If the Nords had not made this same mistake, I’d never have been able to take the city, after all.”

“Thank you, my Queen. But I resent their stubbornness nonetheless.”

They exited the castle, arriving in the vast plaza in the front. “I’m going to go visit with my Shouts.” Almalexia said lightly, changing the topic. “Will you accompany me?”

Ilinalta hesitated. “I don’t typically mingle with commoners.”

Almalexia laughed and took her arm, leading her across the plaza and through the streets. The city barracks were situated a short way from the south of the castle and at this time of day the streets were thronging with busy townspeople. They passed mer from all walks of life, peasants hawking scrib jerky and nix-hound haunch, Dres merchants parading lines of chained lizard-folk through the crowds, priests and mercenaries and farmers and all sorts of fare that had been swift to show their faces with the abrupt return of Velothi rule. Some recognized the nobles and greeted them with warm smiles or words of thanks. Many more simply leered at them, wary and mistrustful still.

The barracks themselves were lively with activity. It turned out that the Nords had left a generous stockpile of weaponry, and those soldiers who were not needed to guard the gates or patrol the streets had been assigned the task of sorting through the blades and armor newly in their possession. Almalexia and Ilinalta entered through a side door to the armory and were greeted by piles of blades, iron and steel and adamantium in both Nord and Velothi fashion, all stashed on every available service.

Ilinalta gasped and flitted over to one of the tables. “So many weapons,” she marveled aloud. “Did the Nords bring them all…?”

Almalexia walked over to stand next to her. “How old are you, sera?”

“Just shy of seventy. Too young to know a free Morrowind, I fear.”

“According to Dres Khizumet’e, this armory could outfit an army of ten thousand men.” She reached out and took a long blade from the pile, a finely crafted steel sword with what appeared to be a section of carved mammoth tusk for the hilt. “Many of these weapons were looted from the chimer armies of old, or brought in by the Nords and then abandoned. Many more were taken from ancestral shrines or the people of Ebonheart when it was sacked.”

Ilinalta selected a golden dagger from the pile, turning it about in her fingertips. “How sad for those families.”

“Indeed.” Almalexia sighed. “I, too, was born after the occupation, but I am forever thankful that Mournhold went peacefully. My mother was wise to see it made so.”

“My father called her the Mercy of Mournhold.” Ilinalta said idly. “For surrendering. Many thought it cowardly, but he lived through Ebonheart’s sacking, he knows what the Nords were capable of.”

“Do you agree with him?”

“Yes, my Queen. Mercy is an admirable trait.”

“Even when shown to one’s enemies?”

Ilinalta frowned. “Who else would you show mercy to?”  

She looked so confused that Almalexia found herself smiling. “A fair point. You’re very wise, my friend, to feel merciful to even the--”

“NORDS!”

The two of them whirled around. A chimer in Dres heraldry, pale and frantic, had skittered through the door and came to a frantic stop before them. He was panting, obviously having ran a long distance, but he blurted out his message immediately: “Nords, a whole legion, sighted from the west gate and marching right towards us!”

“Who leads them?” Almalexia demanded.

“According to your Shout,” he quailed, “Chemua of Mournhold.”

Almalexia felt her heart plummet, but it barely lasted a moment before she sprung into action. “Open the gates!” she ordered. “Find the Dres wizards, open portals to Mournhold as soon as you can. Evacuate the citizens into the countryside in the meantime.”

“But surely, the gates--”

“The Shouts are sworn to obey him still. I will not force them into bloody rebellion. Open the gates! Let Chemua through. I will confront him myself. Go!”

The Dres soldier ran off to deliver the orders. Almalexia cast a quick glance around the room-- there was a suit of ebony armor in one corner and she rushed over immediately to put it on. Ilinalta, who’d been hovering by the table in shock, shook herself and hurried over to help Almalexia don the heavy cuirass, tying the laces with surprising deftness.

“Are you going to fight him?” she asked as Almalexia fastened the pauldrons to her shoulders. Almalexia didn’t have an answer.

She’d only managed to don the cuirass, pauldrons and boots when a booming sound shook the building. Three syllables of tremendous force, causing the masonry to tremble in a way that was all too familiar. “Wait here,” she ordered Ilinalta, and, grabbing the steel sword, she marched out onto the street.

The main street was already lined with those whose curiosity outweighed their sense of caution, or those who were preparing for a war-- Almalexia caught sight of some holding spears and her pulse spiked. Shouts were trying, fruitlessly, to urge the crowd to flee, but even then just as many of them were standing among the masses, staring with a mixture of confusion and horror at the host that was making its way through the street.

And directly before her, larger than life, with a helmet horned like that of a demon, stood the Blighter himself.

" _CHEMUA_.”

Her voice was a thu’um of its own, a word of power summoning all attention to her. She marched forwards as if she were fearless-- all eyes were on her, and she forced herself to be defiant, holding her head high and meeting his eyes through the slit of his helmet. The sight was all too familiar to her: blue spheres, filled with hatred, bloodshot and running with sweat in the summer heat.

They glared at each other for a long moment and then he spoke. “Almalexia.” he said, calmly, through gritted teeth. “Care to explain… this?”

Almalexia took a deep breath and forced herself to smile, speaking as innocently as if they were flirting, as she’d so often pretended to before. “It’s quite simple, my Jarl. House Dres has returned to Ebonheart.”

“Forget them! What in oblivion are you doing here? Why are the Shouts here!?”

“Shortly after you left, Ebonheart fell under threat from the Dwemer. In your absence they were left undefended and they called upon both House Dres and Mournhold for help.”

“You had no right to take the Shouts!”

She tilted her chin up, any semblance of sweetness disappearing from her face. "Their commander was off in Skyrim, muthsera.” she practically spat the chimeri word at him. “Who else was meant to lead them?"

Chemua paused, sucking in a deep breath, and Almalexia could tell that he was seething. But then he smiled, painfully, and rose to the full of his height, rolling his shoulders back in that familiar way of his, the way that indicated he was about to force submission unto someone. "You dance a fine line, little elf.” he purred. “But fine-- so you've had your play at power. This ends now. Shouts! Slaughter every Dres elf in the city."

“Do not listen to him!” Almalexia called out. “Stay your swords and obey me!”

Chemua’s face flushed. “I am the Jarl,” he spoke over her, the force of his voice a physical blast, “And as the Jarl of Mournhold I order--”

“I am their _Queen_ ,” she declared, “And as the Queen, I declare you unworthy as a Jarl and a Nord. I challenge you for the title, Chemua!”

The crowd murmured in surprise, but none looked more surprised than Chemua himself. Her heart was racing and there was fire in her throat, but it was too late to stop; she stepped forwards, raising her voice so that all could hear her. “According to Nord custom, I challenge you!  For you, Chemua, are a coward and a dishonorable man, unfit to rule so much as a scrib. You bully and slink about the shadows like a serpent, raping power from those you can touch and poisoning in secret those you can not! You are a blighter, a pawn of Molag Bal’s, a disgrace to both my ancestors who built Mournhold and to yours who conquered it! You are unworthy, disgusting, weak. In the tradition of the Skyrim you now claim to fight for, I challenge you to a duel!”

“You have made the last mistake of your life, little elf!” Chemua stepped forwards, drawing his sword. “I could end you with a word!”

Almalexia barked out a laugh, gesturing to the crowd. “Good. Do it! Then all of Morrowind will know you for the coward you are, so scared of me you wouldn’t dare cross blades!”

Their eyes were locked, daring. Chemua’s throat bobbed and he opened his mouth--

“ _Mother Ayem!_ ” someone called out.

Both glanced towards the sound in surprise. But then someone else shouted the title, ‘Mother Ayem!’ ringing affectionately in the air, and abruptly countless voices were calling out to her. Hundreds of words in the shapes of prayers, humble offerings that, though weak on their own, culminated in something more powerful than any Word of Power could be. Almalexia turned her gaze back to Chemua, unable to stop herself from grinning, even in the face of death.

The Chieftain himself looked utterly humiliated.“Gh-- fine!” he finally spat out. “You cocky brat. If you’re so desperate for the taste of my sword I shall shove it down your throat!”

“Then it’s a duel!” Almalexia cried triumphantly.

“Swords and shields only. No magic, no shouting. We shall see who is unworthy.”

“Mournhold plaza, in three day’s time, at midday. All of Veloth will witness your demise!”

Chemua tossed his head, and it was obvious that he was on the verge of striking out at her. Relishing in the triumph, Almalexia squared her own shoulders, and they glared at each other for several moments before the Nord finally turned away with evident disgust

“I will see you in three days’ time, sera.” Almalexia called smugly.

The crowd was still yelling, offering forth their support. Chemua had barked orders for his troops to feed themselves and make camp outside of the city-- he had no more than a hundred men with him, Almalexia realized with glee, less than her Shouts and certainly not enough to storm Ebonheart. She turned away and automatically made for the barracks.

Many of the baffled Shouts had gathered there and the inside was alive with chaos. Ilinalta was waiting at the door, accompanied now by her brother, Cruethys. “Oh, you’re unharmed!” Ilinalta cried when Almalexia approached, immediately surging forwards and taking the Queen by the arm. “We saw everything. How brave you were! I’ve never seen such bravery before.”

Almalexia squeezed her hand and then looked to Cruethys. The self-titled King was peering at her with those cold red eyes of his, but she was still drunk with adrenalin and had no difficulty in meeting the challenge.

“It seems that I shall need return to Mournhold early.” she informed him. “And we’ll be unable to continue our debate.”

Cruethys studied her and replied, “Actually, my sister has given me an idea.”

Almalexia turned curiously to Ilinalta, who stepped back and attempted to don a formal expression, though there was a faint blush evident on her pale cheeks. “Cruethys will be King, but ally himself to you and provide you with whatever support you desire.” she said politely. “In return, you must allow clan Ra’athim to establish itself as nobility within sacred Mournhold. As a token of your esteem and the friendship of our kin.”

“Allegiance for a title, then?” Almalexia smiled. “I accept this offer, though I must confess, Cruethys, if it’s not Ilinalta you send as my new Baroness I shall be deeply disappointed.”

“Thank you, sera. If you survive I shall send her with haste” Cruethys bowed his head and Almalexia turned her attention to the next mer waiting anxiously for her attention.

“My Queen?” A Shout, the Second Commander, in fact, a raven-haired old chimer who’d come highly recommended by Khizumet’e, called out to her. “The men are in confusion. What are your orders?”

“Tell them to yield the city’s defenses to House Dres. Order them to rest and spend the night as they please, and be assembled by the gates at dawn, ready to march for Mournhold. Also, let them know that if any one of them accepts orders from Chemua, I will be banishing them from my city the moment I win the duel.”

“Y… yes, my Queen.”

Almalexia followed him into the main hall of the barracks, where the bulk of the Shouts had gathered and were exchanging rumors. She slipped into a shaded corner and watched as the Second Commander issued the orders. Just over two hundred men, and a hundred more back at Mournhold… it wasn’t an army, not even close. But they were hers, and she could recognize their faces, the friends and acquaintances she’d been training with for the past seven years, the sons and daughters of Mournhold. How could she ever fear that they would obey Chemua over her?

The Second Commander dismissed them and immediately she found herself surrounded by chimer and Nord alike, expressing their concern and their admiration in equal part. She returned their greetings with utter sincerity, thanking each man or mer who cursed ‘the tyrant Jarl’ in her name.

The name ‘Mother Ayem’ rang in her ears and she understood at last what her role truly was.

***

Sotha Sil had just finished writing his fifth letter to Almalexia that day when the steward knocked at his door. He didn’t answer immediately; first he gave the sealed letter to the winged twilight he’d summoned, along with explicit instructions to deliver it to Queen Almalexia’s hands _only_. Only once the daedra had been sufficiently instructed did Sil usher it out of the window and open the door to his quarters.

Mournhold’s steward had been Sotha Sil’s constant companion and was one of the few pleasant aspects of what had otherwise proved to be utter chaos. A sensible man of eighty with Atmoran ancestry, his name was Gunthir and he was a veteran of his post, having served both Jarl Chemua and his father before him. Though thoroughly bemused by this turn of events, he’d gone about his business dutifully and kept Mournhold functioning while his fire-tempered masters wreaked havoc in Ebonheart. Sotha Sil had found him indispensable in keeping order during Almalexia’s absence, and though neither he nor Gunthir were entirely happy to have been thrust unwarned into this situation, they found a certain unexpected solidarity, the old man and the young mer, both well-accustomed to dealing with capriciousness of their respective red-haired charges.

Now Sotha Sil found himself almost glad to open the door and be greeted by the demure Nord. “Do I trouble you, musthera?” Gunthir asked politely.

“No, no.” Sotha Sil shook his head, beckoning him in. “What news?”

“Little, I’m afraid.” replied the steward, shuffling through his papers. “Crime continues to rise in the Eastern and Western Districts… House Indoril remains irate and still refuses to carry out its portion of guard-duties… The saltrice farmers report that their crops are flourishing.”

“Any word from Almalexia, or House Dres?”

“I’m afraid not, sera. Nor from Jarl Chemua.”

Sotha Sil tugged at a lock of hair that’d fallen loose from its bun. “For all my love of the Three, I think I’d sell my soul for some lighter news.” he muttered.

The steward shuffled through the papers, frowning. “Aha!” he suddenly exclaimed, “There is a letter here. From your brother, I believe?”

That got his attention immediately. “Serlyn?”

Gunthir offered forwards the letter and Sotha Sil seized it almost too hastily. It was marked with the official seal of House Sotha; almost in disbelief, he broke the seal and found within the letter a note, in Serlyn’s careful printed handwriting:

_Brother, I’m writing to apologize, and to confess._

_When you returned home seven years ago I was jealous that Father preferred you to I. I’ve felt since birth as if I’ve been living in your shadow and life at Ald Sotha became unbearable for me then. That’s why I was lead astray. I confess that I’ve done bad things. I was seduced by an evil cult and joined their ranks. They made me leave home. They wanted me to assassinate Lady Almalexia, they were sending me to Mournhold. I would have done it if Vehk hadn’t shown up. I was greatly troubled and I left them before I boarded the boat. I didn’t know where to go or what to do. I was lost. Then I met two mercenaries wandering the ashlands, and they returned my soul to Azura, they set me on the right path again._

_I’ve returned home now. Kaisa has told me you’ve gone to Mournhold to search for me. Worry no longer. I’m remaining here for good. I write as a vow to you and to Azura that I will make everything right again. I will make Father see the error of his ways. Forgive me for what I’ve done. Ask Almalexia to forgive me. Keep her safe if it’s not yet too late._

It was signed with Serlyn’s unmistakable signature. Sotha Sil stared at it for several long moments, trying to process the information within. Serlyn was at home. He was safe. Someone was planning to assassinate Almalexia. His little brother was safe.

“Ser?” The steward interrupted him gently.

Sotha Sil passed a hand over his face. “I’m fine.” he replied, detached. Automatically he placed the letter on the table and drifted to the window, looking out at the city beyond. Pale lilac stone glistening in the summer heat, beautiful arching architecture and the distant movement of mer going about their daily business. It had once looked like a prison in his eyes…

The glint of metal caught his eye and he squinted. Marching towards the castle was a host of soldiers, headed by a tall and bearded figure that Sotha Sil recognized even from this great distance.

Without warning he pushed past the steward and flew down the stairs, robes billowing behind him. He arrived at the door to the castle just as Chemua marched into the courtyard. The Nord was red-faced, obviously suffering in the overbearing midday heat, but he and Sotha Sil locked eyes and Sotha Sil found himself preparing a destruction spell in one hand.

“The whore’s whore.” Chemua observed after a moment, scowling.

“Custodian of Mournhold in the Queen’s absence.” Sotha Sil replied. “Mind thy tongue.”

“Or what?”

Sotha Sil lifted his hand, the Nord drew his sword-- and then someone called out. “Stand down, Sotha Sil!”

Almalexia had come up from behind the host, similarly clad in heavy armor and with one hand raised. Sotha Sil dispelled the charge spell and took a wary step back, looking between the two.

“You aren’t meant to be in the castle.” Chemua snarled at her.

“Nor are you.” she shot back.

“Both of you stand back,” Sotha Sil interrupted, stepping forwards once more. “I was, to my great surprise, left in custodianship of this castle, and though I planned not to take the office I shall not be deterred in serving my role. Stand down and offer explanation.”

Chemua raised his hand, wiped some sweat from his brow, and barked out a laugh. “The arrogance of elves!” he mused to himself. “Fine. Soldiers, make camp outside the city walls. Go!”

“Shouts, follow suit!” Almalexia called. Sotha Sil watched as the Jarl turned and made for the gates, followed by both Almalexia’s army and his own. Almalexia, too, stood still, watching closely, though Sotha Sil could detect a faint trembling in her posture that betrayed a great amount of stress.

“Accompany me to my room.” Almalexia ordered him. Sotha Sil wordlessly took her hand and lead her into the castle.

The moment they’d entered her chambers and closed the door her composure broke. She didn’t even bother to remove her cuirass before flinging herself onto him, pulling him into a tight embrace and burying her face in his shoulder. The hug was uncomfortable thanks to the presence of her armor, and she stank like a soldier after a long march, but Sotha Sil endured it and held her all the same.

They clung to each other for several long moments before Almalexia stepped back, taking a deep breath.

“I’m so sorry.” she blurted out. “For laying this unwanted duty on your shoulders. But I could trust nobody else, nor could I abandon my plans. Please understand, my friend, I beg you to have mercy on me.”

“What have you done?”

“We’ve successfully freed Ebonheart from the Nords. Cruethys Ra’athim is now its king and House Dres its staunch protectors.”

“And Chemua?” Sotha Sil demanded.

Almalexia took a deep breath before answering, almost sheepishly. “I challenged him for the title of Jarl. We’re going to duel.”

Sotha Sil found that he didn’t quite have a reply to that, other than to stare at her, dumbfounded. She stared back, defiant in that stubborn way of hers, but after a moment she caved and turned away. “I told you that I’d free Mournhold or die trying.” she mumbled. “I plan to stick by that vow.”

He took a long moment to compose himself, grasping at words he didn’t quite have. “You look exhausted.” he finally told her. “Let me help you get out of that armor. If you’re to do this thing, you will need to be well-rested.”

She let him remove the armor in silence. Emotions warred against each other in Sotha Sil’s throat-- anger at her, anger at Chemua, anger at himself, fear, concern, frustration, guilt, love. The latter was somehow the least surprising and also the strongest; it had been kindled by the thought that she might have been assassinated, and only proved further as he helped her undress, pulling ebony off of her bruised skin while she shook and stared into space. It had taken the thought of her dead to stir it in him, but now it was undeniable. 

The love must have been mutual, too, for when Almalexia was down to simply her undergarments she stepped away and turned to face him.

“Sotha Sil,” she began, with an odd tremor to her voice, “If I survive, I would ask you to stay and be my counsellor. War is coming and… and I need you. But I understand that your loyalty lies to your family first and foremost. A chimer’s most important thing is their House and I will not begrudge you that. Not even a week ago I chastised you for leaving me, but I ask your forgiveness now. No matter where you choose to go, I only ask that we remain friends, that I may write to you… as we did in the old days”

Sotha Sil paused, then knelt in front of her.

“You are my Queen and my friend,” he said solemnly, “And a friend of all of House Sotha. My House has persevered from the times of Veloth and I may be of more use here. So I vow on Azura and the Three Good Daedra that I will stay by your side, and if ever I leave, that I will always return. Always.”

“Always?”

“Always.”

“Stand up, my friend.”

Sotha Sil stood, and the moment he was upright Almalexia seized his robes and kissed him. This time it was calm, and lasted for several long seconds, before she pulled away with a soft smile.

“Then let us get some rest,” she said, “For tomorrow we go to war.”

***

The day of the duel promised to be bright and sunny. Almalexia sat alone in the doorway of the Indoril shrine, watching dawn creep over walls of the city from behind the shelter of the ghostfence. Already the pale stone of Mournhold was reflecting the merciless sunlight, and with the skies still clear of ash there was nothing to prevent the world from growing quickly hot.

She’d spent the past several hours talking to her ancestors in the tombs. It was the first meeting she'd had with them since her coronation. They’d gathered and listened as she told them what she’d done, every bit of it, from the moment Boethiah had told her to take the crown to the moment she’d crept timidly into the catacombs for the first time in decades. Their souls were silent, but familiar, comforting… and proud of her, for once. A part of her had been hoping that Boethiah would appear to offer her some words of wisdom, but in the end the armored Prince had refused to appear at all, and she had consoled herself with only the gentle murmurs of Queens from ages past.

Making good with her predecessors was a calming act, especially for one who knew that they faced the chance that they might soon be joining the ranks of ghosts. But Almalexia had not come here only for comfort. Long ago, before the invasion of the Nords, her now-deceased mother had been wed to a warrior, Indoril Lexival. It was this warrior, by all accounts an honorable and daring hero, that Almalexia had been named after, and as a token of their holy blessing her ancestors had bestowed upon her his war-mask. It was a simple thing, dusty with ash and wrought in the shape of an orc’s fearsome visage, almost ugly in appearance. In other words, it was absolutely perfect.

In the newly rising sun she took her time tracing the figures. The orc’s fleshy snarl, its tusks curving over its cheekbones, its heavy brow and hanging jowls. It was fitting, Almalexia thought, as Malacath and the Orsimer had always been an enemy of the Nords. Two barbarians, man and mer, similar in nature but utterly different in the flesh. She knew Chemua well enough to trust that he’d appreciate the symbolism.

She hugged the mask to her chest and walked out of the temple. It was still early, the sun barely having risen above the walls, yet she headed not for the palace but for the luxurious Royal Shrine, a beautiful three-canton structure to the east of it. Azura’s canton was the only populated building at this time of day, with an acolyte in the middle of leading a daily worship to the Prince of Dusk and Dawn. It seemed that there might be more worshipers than normal this day, and Almalexia vaguely wondered whether they were there to beseech the Lady of Roses for her safety or her triumph. This notion was vaguely amusing.

Sotha Sil was sitting at the back of the congregation, and Almalexia wordlessly sat next to him. They bowed their heads and waited, silent, until the alcolyte had finished her rapturous sermon. _For she is the mechanism that allows the transformation of the world. Ours is the duty to keep it from falling to the Void..._

Once the sermon ended, Sotha Sil and Almalexia returned to the palace in silence. Waiting for them in the entrance hall was Indoril Nam.

“Grandmaster.” Almalexia, vaguely surprised, greeted him with a respectful bow.

Indoril Nam sniffed. “Hortator Dres. Turncloak daughter.”

“Have you come here only to call me names?”

“No, no-- pardon my harsh tongue.” Nam squared his shoulders with an indignant huff. “In fact, I’ve come to offer you retribution.”

Almalexia stared at him plainly. “Offer.”

“House Indoril is willing to pardon your irredeemable slight. We are not so cruel that we’d cast out someone without offering a second chance.”

“What are your conditions?”

“That you pledge yourself to marry a man of House Indoril, that you immediately revoke all ties with House Dres, and that you consult me personally on all your future actions.”

Almalexia laughed. “I’ve rejected these conditions before, serjo.”

Indoril Nam shook his head, expression solemn. “I thought to offer one last time. If you remain unpardoned, after all, your ashes will not be laid to rest within the tomb, and you will be cast away from your ancestors for eternity.”

Almalexia regarded him for a long moment, and then bowed. “I thank you, serjo,” she said, “But I cannot accept this offer. Fortunately my ashes will not be laid to rest within the near future, and I am certain I have time enough to find marriage or an alliance that will take me instead.”

“So it is done.” Indoril Nam declared. “We are done with each other ever-more. Good day, sera.”

They watched Indoril Nam stalk haughtily away.

“You just abandoned your own House.” Sotha Sil observed softly.

Almalexia shook her head. “I abandoned House Indoril. Mournhold is my House, its people my children. Outside of they and you I need no other.”

“They always said you were Nordic. I’m beginning to understand why.”

They ate breakfast alone, in Almalexia’s chambers. For the most part they remained silent, occasionally exchanging some idle thought on the quality of the cooking or the harsh weather of late. For the most part, though, each had their mind on the future, and there was great anxiety present in the air.

A duel was a distinctly Nordic custom, the epitome of the values their culture embodied. Honesty, honour, strength, bravery, the idea that a man should earn all he owned-- these were the holy notions that were summarized by the simple idea that a dispute between two people could be settled by a fight, and that someone who could not fend for himself in battle had no right to rule. It was a simple culture that the men of Skyrim came from, but undeniably a romantic one. The Queen of Mournhold had grown up learning the tales and songs of this culture and she now found that, hours before she’d drive it from her city forever, she felt an odd affection for its simplicity and charm. 

But this was a day for the triumph of Velothi over Nord and mer over men. The day after Almalexia’s return, Sotha Sil had gone out and purchased two items from an ashlander merchant in the Eastern District-- a paintbrush made of cliffracer plume fibers and a mortar and pestle of volcanic stone. As Almalexia set out her Queen’s armor on her bed and undressed, he silently prepared a mixture of dreugh wax and golden sedge, tempered with a hint of corkbulb that turned the whole mixture a delicate green. In the early days of Veloth the chimer had been akin to barbarians, and practiced countless rituals to bring them blessings in battle. Though the Great House chimer had long since abandoned many of these primal practices, Sotha Sil’s grandmother was an ashlander, and before her death had passed on some of these long-forgotten rituals. This was one such ancient practice, one made for those who craved revenge.

Once the paint was ready Almalexia stripped naked and stood with her arms held out in the middle of the room, eyes closed as Sotha Sil knelt by her side and painted beautiful lines along her limbs. Each bruise Chemua had left on her, fading but still sore and purple under the skin, became the backdrop of vine-like tendrils that curled around her body in arcs and plumes. With each stroke of the paintbrush Sotha Sil recited a prayer in Chimeris, vowing the destruction of he who’d left these wounds. He spoke of the House of Troubles, and of how they would be vanquished by Almalexia’s success. He promised glory for the Velothi, freedom for the chimer, the defeat of their enemies, a realization of the truth that the Three Good Daedra urged them in every waking moment to pursue. He spoke of their ancestors and descendants to come.

It was an hour before the ritual was done and by that time Almalexia was completely adorned with swirls and sigils. She admired herself in the mirror thoughtfully, tracing one of the swirls that ran around her breast.

“You’ve forgotten your cuirass and greaves.” Sotha Sil pointed out, looking over the assortment of armor over her bed.

“No.” Almalexia shook her head. “I won’t be needing them.”

Sotha Sil helped her don her armor, too-- first the silken breast-bindings and undergarments, followed by a long Velothi-style loincloth that would serve as her only article of clothing. Rather than a cuirass she donned a circular mantle that rested on her chest, and double-layered adamantium pauldrons that shone with lilac lacquer and extended from her shoulders like wings. Then two armored ebony boots that rose to her knees, and a single ebony gauntlet on her left arm, followed by livery in excess, banners embroidered with prayers in chimeris and Mournhold’s crest hung from her pauldrons.

The end result was almost breathtaking. Her midriff and thighs were left exposed, her painted golden skin in startling contrast with the pauldrons and the stark Velothi banners. Sotha Sil helped her put up her hair, and then there was nothing left but to wait for the moment of judgement, and brace themselves for what was to come. They sat on the bed in silence, holding each other’s hands, and waiting.

“We’d best make for the plaza.” Sotha Sil finally said, reluctant.

“We’d best.” Almalexia agreed, without moving.

Sotha Sil hesitated. “... Ayem?”

“Seht?”

“Don’t die. Please.”

She smiled and gave his hand a brief squeeze. Then she let go, laced her war-mask to her face, and they strode together out of the room.

They’d timed themselves well, for it was already almost midday and the sun was high and hot. The palace courtyard opened up onto the plaza, where a crowd was already amassing, having heard of the challenge to come and anxious to witness its subsequent result. Almalexia could pick out Ilinalta Ra’athim, and Dres elves, and mer from House Indoril as well, draped with Velothi prayer-banners and livery in direct defiance of their Nordic oppressors. There were humbler mer too, citizens who’d watched her ascension to power and now gathered to observe what would either be her glory or her downfall. There would be no other end.

Standing opposite the courtyard entrance was Chemua, clad in full steel with his face hidden under his demon-horned helm.

“Your sword.” Sotha Sil murmured, offering out the blade that her shield-bearer had brought over: her familiar and ornamented coronation-sword. Almalexia took it, weighing it in her hands. It was heavy and familiar, similar to the swords she’d trained with among the Shouts; its ebony blade was freshly honed and glinting a malevolent black against Mournhold’s background of blistering white. She gripped the hilt double-handed and strode forwards.

She and Chemua came to face each other in the middle of the plaza, regarding each other in utter silence. He was carrying a steel broadsword in one hand, an ornate shield in the other. But he was also visibly sweating-- wool, she thought to herself smugly, of course the stubborn s’wit wore wool. Even though he was more than a head taller than her and vastly stronger, she felt a sudden surge of confidence and squared her shoulders, standing to the full of her height.

“So this is it, then.” Chemua observed.

“May our ancestors judge us.” Almalexia replied in chimeris.

“No Voice, no magic. Winner gets the city. Enough has been said.”

And with that they began, circling each other slowly, each waiting for the opportunity to strike. Almalexia kept her broadsword raised in a guard,  held low across her unarmored torso; Chemua held his shield at the ready, held facing towards her, and matched her slow movements.

Chemua made the first attack, charging forwards. Almalexia stepped deftly out of his way, letting momentum carry him past her, and swung around to catch him in the back-- he swirled around just in time to deflect the blow with his shield. He immediately countered, trying to take advantage of the gap in her defenses by swinging the sword for her belly, but she dove out of the way and the blade swung harmlessly past her skin. She danced back, moving lightly in her scant armor, and Chemua was forced to stagger to a stand-still, facing her as each contemplated their next move.

“How typical of you.” Almalexia called out to him. “You can only hit a girl when she’s unarmed.”

Chemua charged again and she swerved to the side, skittering to a stop a safe distance away while he recovered his stance. His steel was gleaming in the sunlight, its dark grey plates turned almost white with the combination of the summer sun and the light being reflected from the pale stone of the plaza. Even Almalexia, bearing the natural chimer resistance to the heat, was sweating under her pauldrons-- she couldn’t fathom how much worse it must be for Chemua, fully armored and wrapped in wool under the metal. For every moment they spent in this battle, the heat would sap the fatigue from their limbs-- which was why Almalexia intended to drag it out as long as possible.

She danced around him, circling with her sword at the ready. He turned with her, facing her in a defensive stance and apparently waiting for her move. She feinted and he moved to block it, so she turned and feinted a different way, making him move to block again. Keep him moving, she decided, make him waste his energy.

“What’s wrong?” she called sweetly. “You’ve stuck your sword in me oft before. Is old age affecting you? Attack, f’lah!”

Chemua obeyed, charging forwards-- but he swerved to the same side that she did and she was forced to bring her sword down to deflect his blade from her midriff. The same moment she did his shield was rammed into her warmask with a resounding _crack_. It shattered-- she was momentarily blinded by the shards and, blinking through blood, only saw the sword coming for her face just soon enough to deflect it with the gauntlet on her left arm. The blow was deflected, barely, the sword-tip only grazing her cheek, but the gauntlet buckled under the force of the blow and she felt the unmistakeable crunch of her bones shattering.

He tried to bash her with the shield again but she dodged and staggered back. Grasping her sword in her uninjured hand, she deflected blow after uncoordinated blows as Chemua bore down in her, having launched into a barrage of chops and swings. The onslaught was relentless, composed of more rage than reason-- she barely had time to jump away from one blow before the next came at her, locking them in a deadly and exhausting dance that would last until one of them caved. There was blood in one of her eyes, pouring down her neck, sweat drenching her torso, and she wondered for a desperate moment how long he could possibly keep this up.

He made one final lunge at her, almost staggered, and barely managed to avoid falling.

Almalexia came to a halt and watched, breathing hard, as Chemua slowly righted himself. She continued to watch as he dropped his shield, and then tore off his helmet, revealing a face red and drenched with sweat. He was panting heavily, slumped with fatigue, leaning heavily on his left leg, probably from that old injury that always bothered him in hot weather; Almalexia met his eyes and found herself bizarrely stricken by his age.   

Rage filled her abruptly and she stepped forwards. “Come on, coward!” she shouted. “Finish the job! N’wah! Bastard!”

He simply circled her, and she lost her temper despite herself-- she charged forwards, swinging low. He met her blade with his and she reared back, swinging for his now bared head, only for her chopping blow to be deflected by his sword again.

But he’d had to raise his sword to block her, and his torso was left bare. She ducked and slammed her shoulder directly into his chest.

It was enough to topple the overheated Nord. He fell backwards and hit the ground with a thunderous _crash_. Almalexia was on him immediately, driving her heel into his shoulder and ramming her sword-point down into his hand. He yelled out and dropped his blade, only for her to push the tip of her sword into the skin of his neck.

They froze there, her sword at his neck, both panting, overheated. She braced herself to push it forwards-- only for him to suddenly hit the ground with his uninjured hand and rasp out a word.

“Mercy,” he gasped. “Mercy.”

She flexed her grip on the sword, took a deep breath. She could remember all of it at that instant, seven nightmarish years, the powerlessness, and every night she’d spent, eyes squeezed shut, fantasizing about the moment she'd get her revenge and drain the life from his body, just to get herself through. How long she’d dreamed of shoving a sword into his throat and being done with it all.

But she dropped her blade and stepped away.

“Mercy.” she announced. “Healers! Attend to him.”

It was over. She turned away, closing her eyes as healers rushed to her aid and Chemua’s. There were hands grasping at her, voices of concern and praise, and then someone was pushing through the crowd.

“Ayem--” She found Sotha Sil by her side, grasping her uninjured hand and preparing a healing spell. She pushed his hand away and instead kissed him, straight on the lips, though she was covered still in blood, she must’ve stank. Then she pulled away and turned around, to the throng of chimer and Nords who were crowding in around the plaza, each still perhaps in disbelief of her triumph. 

It was Ilinalta Ra’athim who put their disbelief to rest. “Mother Ayem!” she called out, rushing forwards and seizing Almalexia by the shoulder “Queen of Mournhold! Merciful Mother Ayem!” And Almalexia was forced to concede that the Ra’athim clan had a way of making people follow them, because the cheers had erupted across the city, and she was immediately overwhelmed with the idea that she was, indeed, their ruler, and a grin split across her bloody face.

Chemua had been healed and he struggled to his feet. Almalexia turned her attention to him, the bloodied and heat-stricken man who was even now wobbling in his heavy armor.

“Chemua.” she called out. He looked up and she continued, head high: “You’ve blighted my city for long enough. Begone! Mournhold is no longer Skyrim’s to own.”

He glared at her for several moments. And just when she thought he’d attack, he simply stood as straight as a vanquished man can stand, and walked, with humble dignity, for the gates.

Once he’d left the newly freed Mournhold erupted into cheers once more. Almalexia finally let pain wash over her and staggered before falling into someone’s arms. “Leave the cut on my face,” she ordered, weakly, as healers rushed to her side. “Leave it there… I want everyone to know when they look at me of my power.” She was dizzy with pain, she realized, and her own fatigue-- but more than anything, she felt powerful, and never had someone been prouder to stare into the face of war.

She was carried inside, and Mournhold rejoiced that night, having entered under the protection of Mother Ayem. They would remain there for eras to come.

 

***

“Alright, Sul. Two dram and a shaggy one, cough it up.”

Two mercenaries sat on the roof of a Mournhold cornerclub, watching the sun sink low behind the horizon.

“Oh, come on!” The one named Sul exclaimed. “I wasn’t serious about that!”

“A bet’s a bet. You bet two dram that Mother Ayem would lose but she didn’t. Pay up.”

“Gambling is a sin against holy Azura.”

“So’s not paying your dues. Or will we have to tousle over it?”

Sul grumbled and fished two coins from his rucksack, tossing them at his companion. “I can’t understand how she lost.” he complained. “Azura’s message was very clear to me, that an assassin would come to slay the Champion of Boethiah, how could she be mistaken?”

“Maybe Mother Ayem isn’t the Champion. Have you seen her wearing any ebony mail?”

“Well, no, but--”

“But nothing.” The mercenary sat back, holding up the ornate star-shaped crystal that had formerly been sitting on his lap. “To become a Prince’s Champion one embarks upon a quest. If they are successful they are rewarded with a trophy. I would know, I did it myself.”

“But I don’t understand.” Sul muttered, grinding the heels of his palms into his forehead miserably. “I saw them, at the Shrine of Azura. The Sotha boy and the child and the man, discussing their plan to assassinate the arch-priestess of Boethiah. Why would Holy Azura show me this vision if not to warn me of her death? What meaning does this hold?”

His companion shrugged, busy admiring the star in the sinking light. “Sometimes dreams are simply dreams.”

“And yet we met the Sotha boy. He as much as confessed that they were sending an assassin.”

“Mayhaps Azura simply wanted you to rescue his soul.”

“But for what? What is the meaning of this all? It makes my head ache! You’re her champion, so help me to understand her will!”

That made his companion laugh, a rich, sincere sound. “Calm yourself, my friend. We’re now at war and we cannot fret over prophecies. Azura has revealed that all of Morrowind will one day be freed-- Boethiah or not, Mother Ayem is simply the seed of something greater yet to come.”

Sul sighed, tugging at his hair. “I trust your judgement, Nerevar. Yet I cannot help but feel… ill at ease about it all. As if this can only end in pain.”

The sun had set, and Nerevar lowered the Star of Azura, no longer smiling. “For the sake of both of us,” he replied, quietly, “I hope that you are wrong.”

**  
**  
  
  
  
  


 


	6. V

_1E411, Evening Star_

_Six months after Almalexia's duel._

_It joined with the Daedroth and took its former secrets, leaving a few behind to keep the web of the world from disentangling. Then the Black Hands Mephala put the egg back into the netchiman's wife and blew on her with magic breath until the hole closed up. But the Daedroth did not give her back her eyes, saying:_

 

* * *

It was, without a doubt, cold.

The scout was a Nord by birth, with rich human blood and a lineage that could trace its way back to the earliest Atmoran refugee, but even he felt as if he were on the cusp of freezing to his post. Wrapped in a thick fur cloak and holding a torch so close to his face that his beard was at peril at burning, he wondered for not the first time what God he’d displeased to be given this miserable assignment, what wrongdoings he’d committed to be stranded on a precarious little platform halfway up a cliff-face in the dead of winter.

From far below, at the base of the cliff-face, Commander Holvir of the First Blacklight legion called up, “Any signs?”

The scout shifted and turned his face to the wind. At this time of the year Dunmeth Pass was a nightmarish place to be; the pass cut through the north of the Velothi mountains and opened straight onto the Sea of Ghosts, which meant that for most of winter the freezing winds of the northern sea were funnelled directly through its mouth and out onto Morrowind’s north. The pass itself was little more than clogged tunnel of snow and ice at this time of year-- too thick for a single man to fight his way through, let alone the armies they were meant to be keeping an eye out for. The scout raised a hand to shield his eyes from the frigid wind and, after a long moment, turned away to shout down his reply. “Nay, sir. No sign of life.”

“Come down, then!”

The scout breathed a heavy sigh of relief and began the treacherous descent down the ladder that connected platform to ground. It took a good twenty minutes to descend without slipping and by the time he’d returned to earth his commander had been joined by a man wrapped in bear-furs and bearing Blacklight’s crest. The scout saluted and immediately turned his back to the wind, brushing the snow from his beard as his superiors conferred.

“I’m telling you, there’s no sign of anything that way.” said Commander Holvir with irritation. “Hoag’s freezing his troops out here for nothing!”

“We can’t leave the pass undefended.” came his companion’s patient reply.

“Undefended? Gods be damned, there’s nothing to defend it _from_! There’s not a man in Skyrim foolish enough to try and make it through the pass in the dead of winter. I’m telling you, we can’t stay out here like this!”

“Olaf--”

“Not even Olaf could make it through that snow. Tell Jarl Hoag he’s a fool if he insists on keeping us stationed out here!”

“I heard that Olaf has a dragon.” The scout spoke up, voice muffled by his fur cloak.

Holvir spat. “Having a dragon ent controlling a dragon. And if that bastard thinks he can make it through he’s clearly exchanged that dragon for his wits.”

His companion, obviously one of Hoag’s generals by his livery and tone, shifted and pulled his cloak tight around himself. “I find your attitude troubling.” he warned. “Questioning your High King’s orders could be taken as a sign of treason.”

“You worry that my loyalty wanes? Ha!” Holvir spat again, and it froze the moment it left his lips. “His concerns are far misplaced. Soldier morale wanes with each passing day, as it has since that coward Chemua lost us Mournhold. If the High King knew how often I hear the soldiers making plans to desert, he’d soil his breeches!”

“Mind your tongue, Commander.”

“I tell you, if Hoag insists on keeping my legion stationed out here he’ll have the whole lot leaving by the morrow. They say Nord deserters are embraced with open arms in Mournhold, and I’d rather be warm with a pretty elf maiden on my arm than freezing my arse off for nothing!”

The general let out a long breath. “... You.” he turned to the scout. “Go up there again and report whether you see anything.”

“Again! Have you a clue how cold it is up there?”.

“Did I ask? Go, man!”

Muttering a complaint, the scout turned and began again the climb to the precarious little scout post. Snow had begun to fall and the wind had picked up-- it seemed to have an odd quality to it now, carrying an unnatural keening sound that sent shivers down the spine. He'd been thoroughly unnerved by the time he’d reached his post and he took a moment to steel his wits.

“Well!” called Holvir. “What do you see?”

“Give me a moment!” the scout shouted in reply. Snow landed in his eyes, blurring his vision, and he had to hold his torch close to his face and blink several times before he could see clearly again. The wind was savage now, whipping around his station as if trying to rip it from the ice, and that eerie keening whistle had only grown louder, more haunting, more ominous.

He braced himself and raised his eyes to the gale. The makeshift barracks sat far below, half-concealed by the falling snow. Beyond the wall they’d erected, piles of yet more snow lay in drifts that the wind had blown against it, and beyond that--

His heart stopped.

Where there had once been only snowdrifts now stood an army of men-- no, not men, they were far too large to be men. They stood tall as giants, row in perfect row, with blazing eyes and golden bodies gently steaming. Brass goliaths, spanning the whole length of the narrow pass, and at their head a single bearded figure wielded something unimaginable-- a heinous and unnatural instrument, sounding snow out of existence with every piercing note.

“What do you see?” Holvir shouted again.

The scout sucked in a frozen breath and, trembling, called out a single word:

“Dwarves!”

As if he’d called a signal the brass men surged to life and turned Dunmeth Pass to an inferno.

 

***

 

Ebonheart was situated on the coast of the inner sea, and the constant flow of warm wind off the water kept it perpetually temperate and salt-scented; even so, there seemed to be a hint of a chill in the winter air, just enough that Vehk found hirself wishing ze’d closed the window before taking in hir next client. Ze lay sprawled atop the covers of the pleasure-bed, as was practice in the brothel-- Mephala instructed them to stay over the blankets, for both ease of cleaning and for the client’s visual enjoyment, she claimed. Vehk couldn’t find it in hirself to argue with the policy, or care.

Life as one of Mephala’s ‘Daughters’ wasn’t bad. Not entirely, at least. It made money, it provided hir with a place to rest and food to eat; ze even had companionship in the form of the other whores who lived in the little brothel. Being one of the youngest, ze was only expected to take two clients a day, and as the single Mephalan outside of the matriarch herself ze was generally treated with respect and admiration by everyone ze encountered. The clients were usually gentle, aware of their privilege, and if ever they turned violent or tried to force hir into something ze could defend hirself with the spear ze kept hidden in hir room. Between duties ze was permitted to roam the city, and generally do as ze pleased-- the only thing Mephala wouldn’t permit her ‘products’ to indulge themselves with was skooma, but Vehk had soon learned that the respite the drug brought was well worth risking hir matriarch’s wrath. While it certainly wasn’t the cozy bland life of a monastery acolyte, ze was surviving. Mephala had showed hir that ze was meant for this and ze’d taken to it like a natural.

The mattress shifted beneath hir as hir client got lazily out of the bed. Vehk rolled onto hir side, watching the man with half-lidded eyes as he stretched his arms and yawned. He was an older man, as they typically were; a tall and wiry mer, with magicka-scars down his back and a thinly pointed beard in the style of the Dwemer. A Telvanni sorcerer, he’d informed hir as they’d undressed, and quite a wealthy one if his clothes and inclinations were anything to go by. He’d allegedly promised to pay Mephala a great deal for use of her most unique product, and Vehk, eager to remain in the matriarch’s favour, had gone above and beyond in pleasing him.

Now the sorcerer began to redress and Vehk propped hirself up on one arm. “Going so soon, sera?”

The sorcerer chuckled. “I’m afraid I must, my dear.”

“Shame…” Vehk rolled to hir hands and knees and crawled over, a deliberate pout forming on hir lips. “It’s so cold. Won’t you warm my bed a little longer? Four dram more and I’ll show you a neat trick with my tongue.”

“Tempting, tempting. But alas, my wife will grow suspicious if I’m away too long.” the sorcerer shrugged his robe around his shoulders.

“You have a wife? I’m jealous of her…”

“A wife, and a beautiful son. He looks a little like you, actually.”

“Would that my father was so handsome as you.” Vehk murmured, reaching out to tug at the robe’s unfastened sash. “Stay, milord. My body misses you already.”   

The sorcerer laughed again, as if at a funny joke, and tugged the sash from Vehk’s loose grasp. The rope was tied and within moments he’d restored his modesty as easily as he’d surrendered it. “Now, now, sera. You’re such a handsome little thing we might be seeing each other again very soon.” There was the clatter of coins on the dresser and the sorcerer stepped away. “Your payment, sera.”

Vehk hopped off of the bed and sauntered over to the dresser as the sorcerer fixed his hair in the mirror. Ze counted the coins quickly, then counted them again, and, frowning, turned around. “You’re short.”

“Hm?”

“Four dram for the spear licking and another six to have me wholly, plus two more for spilling inside. That’s twelve dram, and you’ve only paid ten.”

The sorcerer, who seemed altogether more concerned with his hairstyle than his own stinginess, gave a shrug. “Your specialty is eroticism, not mathematics. Besides, I’m sure your mistress would permit a small discount.”.

Vehk paused to wipe the mess from between hir thighs with the corner of the bedsheet. The client was wealthy, and it would have probably been wisest to let the matter rest, but mention of the sorcerer’s son had sparked a sudden itch of irritation in hir gut and ze couldn’t make hirself stay quiet. Ze stood straight, squaring hir shoulders, and raised hir head high as if to look intimidating. “Two more dram.” ze repeated, failing to keep the annoyance from hir otherwise sultry voice, “Or we’ll have trouble.”

“Are you threatening me, whore? Take it up with your mistress. I shan’t pay you a dram more, so still your sullied tongue before I decide to teach you a lesson.”

Vehk fell silent and put the coins back on the dresser. Wordlessly ze walked around the bed, to where hir loincloth lay on the floor. The sorcerer, still grooming himself, paid no attention to hir as ze got dressed and slunk back to the wall by the head of the bed. Nor did he pay attention as Vehk reached behind the tapestry, and found the hidden alcove where Milk Finger had been securely stashed. Ze weighed the spear in hir hand, watching the sorcerer carefully, and then, with the silent grace of sunlight moving over sheets, dove for the kill.

But fate must have been against hir that day, or perhaps the sorcerer had simply been watching hir all along. Whichever the cause, he turned around the moment ze’d made hir move; he raised a single ringed hand and a blast of solid light left his fingers, slamming into hir chest and sending hir flying into the nearest wall. Head pounding, ears ringing, ze barely heard the sorcerer leave as ze struggled to sit up.

Hir eyes were clenched shut and spots of fuzzy light danced in lazy circles in front of hir vision. Ze groaned and forced hirself to sit upright, leaning against the wall in order not to stumble. A few moments to brace hirself and then ze opened hir eyes-- The room was pitch black, ze could see nothing but the rapidly fading lights dancing in front of hir vision. Surely ze hadn’t been unconscious for so long that night had come? Moving slowly so as not to exacerbate the ache in hir skull, ze carefully got to hir feet and felt along the wall until ze found the window, then fumbled for the clasp to open it and let the afternoon light in.

But hir hands found no clasp-- the window was still open. And ze could feel warm winter sun on her palms, though everything around hir was dark, and ze could see nothing now, only an abyss where hir vision should have been.

The realization hit hir immediately: ze was blind.

Ze dropped to hir knees and fumbled around on the floor until hir hands found Milk Finger. Clutching the spear, ze got to hir feet and pressed one hand against the wall. Slowly, still woozy from the blast, ze felt hir way along the wall until ze reached the door and could slip into the hallway. The brothel was a simple building of three levels, with rooms for business on the two highest floors and a cornerclub on the bottom, where the Daughters of Mephala could attract prospective clients. Mephala was immensely particular as to what sort of image they presented to their clients and would no doubt be furious if one of her products stumbled down there unwashed and half-naked-- but Vehk, still dizzy and with anxiety growing rapidly within hir, decided that Mephala’s ire could be dealt with later. Feeling along the wall with one hand and using Milk Finger as a cane, ze began to make hir cautious way down the stairs, down into the main room.

Fortunately the establishment was currently empty, if sound alone was anything to go by. “Oh, you.” called someone-- Vehk recognized the voice of the whore who served as the brothel’s chef. “I just saw your client come through. Did it go alright?”

“The fetcher blinded me!” Vehk burst out. “That wretched moldy s’wit! I’ll murder him!”

“Hush! Mephala will beat you for that sort of talk.”

“I don’t care! That pervert, that decrepit glob of daedroth’s spit. I’ll stick him with my spear!”

“Vehki! Quiet!”

Ze was panicking, ze realized, hir heart racing like a caged cliffracer within the confines of hir chest. Ze took a deep breath and clutched hir spear with both hands, trying to still hir violent trembling, but ze couldn’t see what was happening and horror was already filling hir chest.

“There, there.” the cook cooed gently, placing a hand on hir shoulder. Vehk hadn’t heard her approach and flinched violently at her touch. “Here, I know a bit of magic myself. I’ll try casting a dispel.”

“Don’t do it. Don’t touch me! I don’t want any magic done on me.”

“Please, it won’t harm you. You want to get better, don’t you?”

Vehk dragged in a shuddering breath and nodded, clutching Milk Finger so tightly that it felt as if the shaft would break. There came a long moment of silence as the cook attempted to prepare the dispel, and then a sudden soft tingle of magika over hir brow, with no apparent effect.

“There, I cast it. Did that work?”

“No! I still can’t see a thing.” Vehk twisted hir hands around hir spear, panic rising in hir chest once again. Ze pulled back from the cook, raising Milk Finger as if to defend hirself. “Where’s Mephala? I need to see Mephala.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, she’s been tempestuous all day…”

“I don’t care! I need to speak with her.”

“She’s on the top floor, training the initiate.” The cook said helplessly. “Please be careful, though.”

Immediately Vehk turned away and began the awkward negotiation up the stairway. There were only a few rooms at the top of the building, and it became immediately obvious which one Mephala was in, for her long, familiar moans wafted down the hall like incense. Vehk followed the noise to a door and banged on it insistently. “Mephala!”

There was no answer, so Vehk banged again, more urgently. “Mephala, please! I need you!”

The moans, which until now had continued as passionately as ever, ceased abruptly. A moment of silence and then the door creaked open, accompanied by a familiar and unmistakeably irritated voice. “Vehk. Pray tell why you interrupt us?”

“I’m blind.” Vehk told the matriarch. “I’ve been blinded. That wizard--”

“Are you dying?”

“No, but--”

“Then you can very well wait until we’ve finished.” Mephala said curtly. The door was slammed and Vehk heard the woman’s voice from behind the wood, smooth and honey-sweet, “My apologies for that. As I was saying…”

Despair rising in hir throat, Vehk slumped back against the opposite wall and slid to the floor, hugging hir knees tight to hir chest. Ze, too, had once been in that room; ze could still recall the long days of intimate service that made up Mephala’s training, and all the ways ze’d been taught to use hir particular ‘gifts’, often practising with the matriarch herself, which ze’d been assured was a great honour. Hir training had taken weeks, which wasn’t unusual-- but that forever ago, and now it seemed that this recent initiate was undergoing the same carnal process. Rumour had it that the initiate was a Mephalan, another between-sex with the blessings of the Webspinner between her legs, and as of late Vehk found hirself feeling as if she represented a sort of upgrade. Certainly Mephala herself made her presence for the elder girl known, and she was prettier than Vehk besides, with softer features and that blonde Aldmeri hair that was so prized among the upper classes. Now an unwelcome but familiar doubt barged into Vehk’s mind: was ze on the cusp of being replaced? This new insecurity brought waves of fear washing over hir, mixing with the already overwhelming anxiety of having one of hir senses taken, and the combination was too much for hir to bear.  

But there was nothing ze could do; ze was helpless. So ze sat outside in darkness, listening to Mephala instruct the initiate on how best to use her tongue, and hugged hir legs tight to hir chest, and tried not to cry.

After what felt like an eternity the door opened and two sets of footsteps came clapping out. Vehk jumped to hir feet and aimed hir head where ze felt Mephala might be, trying to look dignified despite hir near-naked state.

“Now,” Mephala announced herself and Vehk adjusted hir line of sight. “What’s your problem?”

“I’m blind! That s’wit sorcerer cast some spell on me.”

“Mind your tongue. That s’wit sorcerer paid a pretty dram to have your foolish hide. Where is the coin, anyway?”

“I don’t know, I… I left it on the dresser. In the room.”

Ze heard Mephala walk briskly away and rushed to follow hir, making hir awkward blind way down the stairs and nearly falling several times in hir haste to keep up. Once they’d reached the room Mephala stopped and was silent for a long moment.

“There’s no money.” she said simply.

Vehk’s pulse spiked. “What? No, no, it was on the dresser, ten dram!”

“Twelve dram was guaranteed.”

“He only paid ten, I told him it was twelve and then he blind--”

“Zero dram.” Mephala cut hir off, “Is what I see. Where is my money?”

Anger bubbled up from hir gut and Vehk couldn’t restrain hirself. “I’d look for it but I can’t fetching see!”

There was a loud _smack_ as Mephala’s hand struck hir cheek. Ze stumbled back, rubbing at the sore spot, an unbidden whimper rising from hir throat. Even without hir sight ze could tell that Mephala was irritated-- anger radiated from her like heat from a fire.

“You,” the daedra began stiffly, “Have cost me far more than you’re worth. You’ve cost me ten dram, you’ve cost me a wealthy client of high esteem, you’ve cost me months of my time. I took you in as a weeping, snivelling child and you’ve done nothing but burden me since.”

“I’m sorry,” Vehk burst out, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry--”

“Apologies are worth nothing. _You_ are worth nothing, you ugly, malformed little ingrate. I’ll be surprised if you didn’t filch that gold for skooma. Yes, I know about that little habit, you hedonistic scamp.”

“Please, ‘phal, I’m sorry--”

“Be silent!” Ze suddenly felt Mephala’s breath hissing against hir ear. “I give you now a secret, little one, a vital secret of the universe. You are useless, a burden, an abomination, an evil little mistake with no redeeming qualities save the one between your legs.” And then the daedroth pushed hir away, and ze found hirself standing, stunned, staring sightlessly into nothing.

There was the sudden weight of a cowl dropped around hir shoulders. “Go.” Mephala ordered hir curtly. “Leave here. I’ve no more use for you.”

Numbly, Vehk picked up hir spear and put hir hand on the wall, feeling hir way down to the bottom floor. Ze was stunned, completely unable to feel, as if made numb by the sheer harshness of hir patron’s words. With the lack of sight, it felt as if ze’d left reality-- perhaps this was simply a bad dream...

None of the other whores stopped hir to say farewell, or perhaps they didn’t notice hir departure, Vehk couldn’t tell whether they were in the cornerclub when ze slowly prodded hir way through the room and ze couldn’t bring hirself to call out. It was only when ze’d opened the front door and made hir clumsy way out into the street that ze resigned hirself to the fact ze’d been allowed to go uncontested, and the sudden weight of hir loneliness only served to emphasize the already overwhelming fear.

Ebonheart’s winter air was cool and only getting colder as the afternoon wore on. The narrow street sounded of hushed murmurs, footsteps moving back and forth at the behest of invisible spectres. For six months Vehk had called these streets hir home-- but without sight, trapped in a world of perpetual shadow, the city had been turned into a corridor of lurking danger from which ze was unable to defend hirself.

Ze clutched hir spear before hir and began the search for somewhere to spend the night.

 

***

 

If you’d have asked him, Sotha Sil would claim that he considered himself a man of sound morals. He’d been raised in the warm sanctuary of an Azura worshiping House, after all, and from childhood his family had impressed upon him the essential values of kindness, generosity, honesty, the importance of doing what was ‘right’ and ‘good’. And though he wasn’t the most religious of his kin, certainly not beyond critically analyzing the codes of the Prince of Dusk and Dawn, he strove to act in a way that was more or less morally sound, in both his duties and his private pursuits.

Despite all of this, he certainly wasn’t above toeing a line if the proper temptations called, and in Mournhold temptation seemed to be scrawled on the bricks of every corner. For some, this came in the form of the lurid hip-swirling Daughters of Mephala, or the Khajiiti skooma-peddlers that lurked in the sewers; for Almalexia’s right hand and favored counselor, it came in the form of illicit mechanical curiosities filched from the Dwemer and sold in the darkest corners of Chimer civilization.

That Mournhold forbade the trade of Dwemeri mechanics was more a matter of principle than anything. They were, after all, the ancient enemies of the Chimer people-- to condone their existence in any way would simply be in bad taste, and to go so far as to permit them a place in their economy would be considered nigh-blasphemous. The natural consequence of this prohibition was that a thriving black market had blossomed in the city, where Dwarven weaponry and poorly-translated tomes traded hands with the same furtive secrecy as skooma. Sotha Sil, whose passion for learning far outshone his passion for frivolous laws, had hardly lasted a day before plunging himself headfirst into the market; six months in and there lay in his room an impressive selection of gears, blueprints, astrolabes, and his prized project: an automaton he was slowly reconstructing from scraps.

Not that this indulgence didn’t come with a faint hint of guilt. Because Almalexia would have been livid to discover her favored counselor breaking her laws, he could only satisfy his intellectual thirst behind her back-- and he did consider himself a moral man, one who wasn’t acclimated to sneaking about behind those he loved and trusted. He’d been living two lives as of late and it made him uneasy. During the day he was consumed in helping Mournhold’s Queen orchestrate a war with the men of the North; only during the night and in his spare moments of free time could he pursue his studies into mechanics and magika. During such stressful times one needed a release, and Sotha Sil’s was his studies, something that he couldn’t give up without suffering for its loss-- such was the reasoning he used to ease his guilt, at least.

Besides, he reasoned, this allowed him to keep an eye on the Eastern quarter in a way that his Queen or her guards simply weren’t able to do. And if ever the rabble had needed an eye kept on them, it was now, for the impoverished quarter had been swollen beyond recognition by the influx of refugees pouring into Mournhold. It was nearly difficult to walk, so busy and cluttered were the little alleyways; on each corner stood peddlers hawking ration-slips and anything remotely edible, courtesians flirting with petty merchants and exasperated priests, beggars and orphans and rabble of every sort shoving their way through the narrow streets. As he elbowed his way through the throng, Sotha Sil wondered how many more people Mournhold could take before its collapse-- and because Almalexia would never turn away even the lowest of her people, this collapse could only be inevitable.

Too many people and not enough food. Too many soldiers and not enough weapons. Too many builders and not enough room to expand. Too many difficulties…

He came to the small cornerclub that marked his typical meeting place and slipped inside. Nobody noticed his presence-- most of the crowd’s attention was fixed on the Daughters of Mephala who swirled and danced in one corner of the room, gyrating to the melodies of drums and Nord lutes. He made his way up several flights of stairs, to the top of the precarious little building, and then through the trap-door that lead to an unfurnished attic. The room was occupied only by two chimer, rogues in cowls and netch leather armor perched atop old crates. Sotha Sil recognized them and greeted them with a cursory nod.

“Serjo.” the two replied simultaneously.

“Let’s get to business immediately.” Sotha Sil began. “I presume you have the parts I requested?”

The two rogues exchanged a glance. “Well…” began one of them, a dark-haired young women. “No.”

“Actually, we’re resigning, serjo.” her companion, a male, added. “Fondest apologies.”

Sotha Sil’s eyebrows arched-- whatever he had been expecting, it certainly wasn’t that. “May I question why?” he replied, trying to keep a hint of irritation from his voice.

The rogues exchanged another glance, and it was a long moment before the girl answered, somewhat reluctantly. “It’s become too dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

“Aye, serjo.”

“The stronghold we used to pilfer from has recently become…” the male butted in, “Occupied.”

“We thought it was abandoned but they’ve started producing robots again. Thousands of ‘em, serjo.”

“Spiders, spheres. Those enormous brass men, even.”

“Wait,” Sotha Sil interjected, “They’re producing centurions?”

The girl opened her mouth to reply, only for her companion to suddenly cut her off. He stood up slowly, slipping his hands into his pockets, and, having suddenly adopted a deliberately nonchalant affect, shrugged. “Hard to say, serjo.” he began slowly. “A dram to loosen my tongue?”

Sotha Sil stared at him. “You jest.”

“Do I? Then we shall take our leave. Mother Ayem needs not know of her enemies, I’m sure…”

“You’d have us all succumb to the Dwemer over a dram?”

“If there were profit in it, serjo? Absolutely.”

Sotha Sil grimaced. “Malacath take you.” But, reluctantly, he pulled four dram from his pockets and handed them over. “There’s your payment. Tell me all you know.”

The man stepped back, satisfied, and his companion immediately launched into her report. “At least a hundred big brass men and five hundred spheres, and they’re still manufacturing new ones. And Dwemer, hundreds of them-- all armed, wearing brass armor and… preparing.”

“Preparing?”

“Aye, serjo.” she shrugged. “My Dwemeris is too poor for me to understand any of what they said. But they’re definitely preparing for something. Sounds like an attack. They already--”

Her companion reached out and silenced her. Sotha Sil hastily fished another dram from his pockets and tossed it over. “They already?”

The girl looked to her companion, who spoke in her stead. “I overheard their commander talking. He said they’ve taken Dunmeth Pass in the north and put siege to Fort Virak, and he also said they’ve got their eyes on Kragenmoor. I don’t think they know Mournhold’s fighting the Nords… yet.”

“I see.” Sotha Sil said, attempting to remain impassive. This news was immensely troubling, to say the least-- with the precarious state of the city, a clash with the Dwemer would be nothing short of catastrophic. “And the name of this Stronghold?”

“Mzithumz. It lies to the north.”

Sotha Sil retrieved his last few coins from his pocket and offered them forth. “Thank you, sincerely. You have done more service to our Queen than you could fathom. Take this as advance payment-- I want you to return to the Stronghold and gather as much information as you can. Come to the palace and ask for Sotha Sil, I’ll more than compensate you for your troubles.”

The girl took the coins and bowed deeply. “Aye, serjo. We’ll do our best for Mother Ayem.”

“For Mother Ayem.” Sotha Sil returned the bow and, with that, exited the room.

The trip back to the castle felt much swifter, for his thoughts were entirely preoccupied. Could Mournhold withstand a Dwemer siege? He had no doubt that the walls were strong enough, but their reserves certainly weren’t-- with so many crowding into the capital of the free chimer, supplies were stretched thin, and a siege would see them starving in a matter of days. Almalexia had already rationed all Mournhold-held crops, aided by what little resources House Dres deigned to spare for them; House Indoril remained so sore over Almalexia’s perceived betrayal that they absolutely refused to cooperate with her or her rule. At least they were making a pretty coin, Sotha Sil mused bitterly. He had no doubt that they would defend the city if it came to a siege, for no Chimeri rivalry could persuade them to aid the Dwarves, but even House Indoril’s reserves wouldn’t be able to last long, not with so many hungry mouths to feed.

And how could they hope to defend themselves, when they had so few weapons at their disposal? Every mage available had been put to the task of training every soldier with even a hint of magical potential-- even Sotha Sil spent every morning holding classes on destruction magic, participating in the desperate effort to craft battlemages from a militia consisting largely of peasants and farmers. Those who couldn’t wield magic were put to training with weapons, but weapons were in short supply, too, as the Nords still held all but a sparse few mines, and what few blacksmiths they had struggled to supply materials. If they were indeed to be pushed back to Mournhold’s walls by the dwarves… 

He crossed the wide plaza, heading towards the gate that connected Mournhold’s castle to the city beyond its walls. Two Shouts stood at guard and one stopped him as he passed. “Lady Almalexia has requested that you meet her atop the walls, at the guard tower facing east.” she informed him. “As soon as possible, if you would, she seems distraught.”  

The city of Mournhold was circular in shape, divided into four wedge-shaped districts with the Plaza sitting within the middle. Each district was separated by towering walls, topped with walkways from which one could overlook any section of the city as well as the landscape beyond, and it wasn’t uncommon for Almalexia to make the long ascent to the tops of the walls in order to look over her city as she schemed. Sure enough, he found Almalexia at the point where the palace wall met the eastern edge of the outer wall, staring out at the landscape beyond the city. Without announcing himself, he drew up and stood beside her, resting his hand atop a polished battlement.

“Look.” she said, without tearing her eyes from the horizon, and he followed her gaze out.

Deshaan was burning. A thick plume of ash rose from the horizon, as if the earth had opened up and spat forth another volcano to be the twin of Red Mountain in the north. Sotha Sil smelt ash in the air-- the unmistakeable scent of burning saltrice-- and grimaced, all too aware of how much that would cost them.

“Bhag.” Almalexia explained, without removing her eyes from the horizon. “His raiding parties struck again. By the time the Shouts got there the farmhouse had burned down. Nothing could be done. And that’s not all that’s happened-- I have dire news, but it’s best shared inside. Come.”

Sotha Sil followed her across the wall, over to the nearest guard’s tower and down the tightly coiled staircase which connected the top of the structure to the bottom. From there they took a hidden passageway into the castle-- for castle Mournhold was laced with such hidden passageways, and Almalexia knew them as familiarly as Sotha Sil knew the intimacies of his own home-- and to the great Throne Room which served as the Queen’s seat even now. Almalexia had torn the wooden throne out, replacing it with a simpler seat of ebony, but the vast council table remained, its Nordic embellishments covered by an expansive map of Morrowind. It was this that Almalexia lead him to, and she came to a stop at the edge of the map representing south. Shards of soul-gem and ebony arrowheads lay scattered about the surface, marking strategic locations, and Sotha Sil quickly took in that the number of arrowheads had dwindled since he last saw the map, and the soul-gem shards had taken their place.

“We’ve lost territory.” Almalexia reported grimly. “Ebonheart has betrayed us. Nords attacked us at Obsidian Gorge and the city withdrew their troops before their blood could be shed. My general was killed and we lost the pass, thanks to the cowards.”

“Was this Khizumet’e’s doing?”

“No, not Khizumet’e. This was not House Dres’ failure but that of those spineless Ra’athim! Cruethys is a snake, and I mean that in the most hateful way, he cares only for profit. Oh, I was a fool to take in his sister-- I’ve been far too lenient on him, too gentle, and now he’s cost us our last mine!” She turned away from the map, and Sotha Sil was taken off guard by the anger in her face, a bitter grimace stretching her lips and twisting the deep scar which ran clear across her cheek. “I should teach him a lesson. Obsidian Gorge was our only safe passage to Ebonheart, perhaps if our beloved Ilinalta were to attempt passage to the city and find herself waylaid by Nords--”

“Ayem.” Sotha Sil cut her off, chiding. “You forget yourself. Calm your anger. We aren’t sacrificing anyone to the Nords, regardless of what lesson you want to teach Cruethys.”

The Queen closed her eyes and inhaled, the physical effort of calming herself apparent in her face. “Fine,” she snapped, opening her eyes and returning her attention to the map. “You’re right. Mercy, I’ll show him mercy… but he tests my patience. Enough about him. We still have a few kwama mines, and First Commander Valyn believes we should start purchasing metal from the commoners, to be melted down and forged into weapons. But my treasurer is anxious about our waning funds, he believes the money would be better spent purchasing what food the caravans bring in. What do you think?”

Though she was making an effort to keep her voice calm, there was obvious anxiety wrought into her frame; stress and rations had made everyone lean, and Almalexia particularly had been transformed over the months, changing from a soft-bodied courtesan to a lean nix-hound of a woman, all fangs and wariness even to her closest companions. The change had never seemed more evident than it did now, and it caused Sotha Sil to hesitate, reluctant to deliver news that would only further trouble her. But he had his duties, as they all did, and so he answered.

“My thoughts on provisions can wait. I actually came to you with news of my own, and grim news, at that: the Dwemer are mobilizing. According to my sources, they’ve taken Dunmeth pass, and lay siege to Fort Virak as we speak. I’ve also received word that they’ve recently re-occupied a stronghold north of Mournhold, in great numbers, and armed.”

“... You’re certain? Who told you this?”

“I have my sources-- sources I know from Ald Sotha. They’re trustworthy.”

“Then why did you hide them from me?”

He didn’t answer that, so she barked out a curt laugh. “Fine. I won’t ask. You may have your mysteries.” The smile disappeared from her face and she leaned over the map. “A stronghold to the north… that would be-- Missy-thumz, or whatever they call it. Our food dwindles every day, our people continue to amass within our walls bearing nothing to arm themselves with. The Nords harry our crops and attack those villages too far away for us to protect. The Ra’athim behave like fickle children. And now we have Dwemer looming over us in Mzithumz. This is… troubling news you bring me, Sil.”

“I was once told that troubling information is a better burden than blissful ignorance.”

“That was your grandmother, wasn’t it? I recall her telling the same to me.”

Sotha Sil came to stand beside his friend, placing a hand on her back as a mute sign of reassurance. Her head was bent over the map, though by the look in her eyes she’d long withdrawn into her own thoughts.  

“We do have one option left.” she said, slowly. “Although… I don’t like it. Not in the slightest. Do you recall much of the moot, fifteen years ago?”

“I recall some of it, no great amount.”

“One of the attendants was Jarl Barfok, the Tongue ruling Narsis.” Almalexia placed her finger over the town on the map. “She supported my claim, and I’ve learned much about her since then. She’s a protege of Ysmir, she enjoys a close friendship with House Hlaalu… and, one month ago, she made me an interesting offer that I’ve just now decided to accept.”

“What do you plan?”

“We’re going to invite her to Mournhold.” she said, with finality. “We’re going to call for a truce.”

 

***

 

“Mournhold? Passage to Mournhold?”

The eastern gate was a cacophony of rumbling carts, shouting peddlers and guards and mercenaries, grunting guars and the echoing cries of silt striders and a thousand other sounds of indeterminate origin. To Vehk, still blinded, it was a maelstrom of chaos, and ze was beginning to fear that hir voice would never be heard amidst the fray, let alone acknowledged. And yet ze pressed on.

“Mournhold! Seeking escort to Mournhold, please!”

“What’re you paying?” A voice growled, so close to hir ear that ze jerked back.

“I-I don’t have any coin, but I’m a Daughter of Mephala, I’ll provide services…”

But no reply came and ze realized that the man had already walked off.

There was a loud squeal as someone tried to force a guar-pulled cart through the throng. Ze heard shouting, curt orders from the guards, the same chaos as before-- suddenly a burst of laughter behind hir, so close that ze jumped out of the way out of impulse, leaping slightly higher than ze’d intended. Ze poised hirself to land, pointing hir toes as ze’d been taught-- only to come down on what was apparently a guar’s tail. The beast bellowed and charged, sending Vehk spilling to the ground.

“Watch it, fetcher!” Before Vehk could regain hir footing the owner of the assaulted guar planted a firm kick in hir side. Ze rolled away, springing upright despite the pain, but without vision there was nothing ze could do. Ze came to a standstill, hopeless, as the chaos of traffic flowing through the east gate went on all around hir.

Someone elbowed hir to the side. “Out of the way,” he ordered. Vehk stumbled slightly, and, before thinking, seized him by the arm.

“Sera, where do you go?”

“Let go of me, you little scamp. This caravan’s bound for Mournhold and we won’t be delayed.”

“Let me accompany you.” Vehk pleaded. “I’ll lick your spear and keep you warm on the road. It won’t cost you nothing, I just need to get to Mournhold.”

“Bug off, we aren’t looking for whores.” The man wrenched his arm away and the caravan continued to move. But Vehk, desperate, followed behind him.

“It’s hard work to be a guard. Let me accompany you, I’ve many talents, I’ll do anything for you, sera, I beg you--”

“Who’s that?” called someone from behind them.

“Some orphan whore who wants to come to Mournhold.” the guard called back.

“What’re they offering?”

“Services, no coin.”

“You, milord!” Vehk darted back, following the voice to the side of the cart and jogging to keep up with it. “You sound like a sweet man, a romantic man. I am blind but I need not my vision to see the beauty in your face. Perhaps you crave a companion for the road? I was trained on the tongue of Mephala herself, my love is tender and I will devote it to you in its entirety. I will be your wagon-wife, your humble servant! My only price is passage to Mournhold!”

The man laughed. “Poetic one, aren’t you? Very well. Just try to keep up, and don’t cause trouble.”

Vehk exhaled in relief and fell to the walking-pace of the cart, grabbing the side of it so that ze wouldn’t lose it in the chaos of the gates. There was a sudden change of noise, a subtle shift from claustrophobia to freedom that came from leaving the city and entering the wilderness beyond. Slowly the chaos-sounds of the eastern gates dwindled behind them, and ze could taste the familiar smell of the plains that surrounded Ebonheart, volcanic ash and the crisp scent of crops. The road turned to tightly-packed soil under hir feet, wind ruffled hir hair, and with the nightmare of seeking passage behind hir, ze began to relax.

In truth, ze couldn’t say why ze’d decided to go to Mournhold. It simply seemed that ze had no better options. Perhaps a part of hir still clung to the idle notion that by some miracle Almalexia would remember hir, and welcome hir as a mother might welcome her long-lost child. Not that that that was anything more than a fantasy, ze knew it for what it was now, a childish little fantasy ze’d clung to from hopelessness. Why, after all, should Almalexia recognize hir; besides, how could ze even know that the story of hir birth was true in the first place? The netchiman could have stolen the sigil, or Sotha Sil could have been mistaken-- who could say whether ze’d ever been anything but a peasant from a fishing village? An unwanted creature good for only one thing, a slave of Molag Bal’s…

But hir thoughts grew dark and ze tried hir best to remind hirself that ze currently had greater concerns. The first was that ze still couldn’t see. This lack of sight made hir feel utterly vulnerable, and so ze set about attempting to rectify it, as best ze could given the difficult circumstances.

The cart was wooden and roughly-hewn, feeling similar to corkbulb under hir palm. Ze felt hir way slowly along it, until ze reached the back-- from the sound of the wheels ze could tell that there was another behind it, and ze felt hir way along that one, too, until ze reached the end. Since there was nothing behind that, ze concluded that the caravan was only two carts long, and behind it ze could hear the footsteps of a guard marching dutifully behind the back. After a moment’s contemplation of the risk, ze dropped back until ze walked side-by-side with the guard, using Milk Finger as a staff to feel before hir.

“You blind, girl?” The guard asked amiably.

“Your voice isn’t that of a chimer.” Vehk observed in return. “What are you?”

“You really are blind! I’m a human, girl.”

“I’m not a girl. Not until you’ve paid me, at least. Ten dram for an hour and I’ll be whatever you want me to be.”

“Pardon, lad. You look like a girl.”

“I’m not a boy, either. Does this mean you’re paying me? Ten dram, cough it up.”

“Not a boy or a girl? You elves are an odd lot.” The human laughed, and Vehk relaxed slightly. This one seemed more friendly than the other two and so ze decided to see what ze could learn from him.

“I thought all the Nords got kicked out of Ebonheart.” ze remarked.

“What makes you think I’m a Nord?”

“Aren’t you?”

“No, I’m Yokudan.”

“Ah! Forgive me, I’ve met only one of your kind before. Is your name At-Hatoor, milord?”

“Ansu-Utta.”  

“Oh. So why aren’t you up fighting with the other men?”

“Why would I? I don’t care for Skyrim in the slightest. I’m only here for work.”

Vehk thought about that. “Have you been to Mournhold before?”

“Plenty of times. It’s one of the easier places for a human to get along. Queen Ayem makes things easy for those of us who aren’t siding with her enemies.”

“What’s it like?”

Ansu-Utta spent the next hours talking about his travels, aided by the occasional question from Vehk. Mournhold by the sounds of it was a multicultural place, where Nords and chimer alike would be treated fairly if they were loyal to the city, an odd blend of Velothi and Skyrim cultures that produced a thriving city-state. Though still blind, Vehk listened avidly to descriptions of lilac stone and cobbled streets, pale gleaming towers and little cornerclubs in the style of Nord alehouses, and the thriving black market in the Eastern quarter. It was interesting, even-- and the human seemed so flattered by the orphan’s rapt attention that he shared his waterskin and his food as the day wore on.

Time passed easily and the Yokudan turned to anecdotes and bard-songs. Vehk had always loved such stories and works of fiction, so the human’s shared tales were enough to capture hir attention even through hir despair. And they were strange tales indeed-- tales of warriors who created blades from their voices, for instance. Vehk was fascinated by these in particular and pestered the human with question after question: was it magic? How did it work? Did Ansu-Utta know how to make such blades? Only when he threatened to send Vehk away did ze make hirself fall silent, and afterwards they walked in amiable quiet, while Vehk mused over how strange the world was, wondering how much of it was true, whether ze could ever be certain that anything was truth now that ze was unable to see it.

Eventually the caravan slowed as they began to climb a hill, and by the time it leveled out again the guar were braying in complaint. “We make camp here.” shouted the caravan-captain. Night must be falling, Vehk concluded-- there was a distinct chill in the air now, ze was shivering with only hir cowl and loincloth as protection from the winter cold. Ze heard the caravan trundle to a halt, the grunting of guars as they were reined to a stop, and footsteps-- how many people were on this caravan, precisely? Ze couldn’t tell, blind as ze was, and with nothing else to do ze pressed hirself to the side of the cart, listening intently as unseen people moved around hir.

“Hey, whore!” The first guard ze’d spoken to barked out. “Get over here.”

Probing before hir with Milk Finger so as not to walk into an obstacle, ze unsteadily followed the guard’s voice. “Here, milord?”

“Right, here. Watch this fire.”

“I can’t. I’m blind.”

“You can feel, can’t you, s’wit? Just don’t let it go out.”

Ze obediently crouched and stuck hir hand out, finding the hot plume of air emanating from the fire immediately. A few passes of hir hand over the flame and ze concluded that it was roaring, since hir hand stung from the heat. Ze shuffled around the perimeter of it and found to one side a pile of dry, prickly plant matter, probably kindling or fuel. The air was chilly now, there was no longer the sense of sunlight on hir bare skin-- had the sun set? Ze could hear movement in the distance, the distant grunt of guars and unseen individuals moving about, preparing camp for the night.

Perhaps blindness was a blessing, Vehk thought to hirself, waving hir hand over the fire once more, for with hir sight ze might have been able to contemplate the vast darkness surrounding them. Every mer, even the most lowly, had heard tales of the dangers that awaited them in the wilderness: from savage ashlanders to the Nord bandits, the wild alit and capricious kagouti who’d make a meal out of an unsuspecting traveller, and even the Dwemer, whose hatred for the surface-mer drove them to murder anyone they came across. These caravaneers were miserable company, but Vehk, blinded and alone, wouldn’t had lasted an hour beyond the city gates without them.

“Whore.” Someone spoke, right next to hir ear. Vehk screamed and jumped back, eliciting a sharp laugh from whoever had spoken. “Phal, you really are blind, aren’t you?”

“I am, yes--”

“Scram. I want my seat around the fire.”

Vehk retreated without protest, retracing hir steps until ze was pressed against the side of the cart. Ze could hear laughter and murmurs as the caravaneers assembled around the fire, and smelt something deliciously like saltrice beginning to cook. Hir stomach rumbled and ze dropped to a crouch to try and soothe it, still clutching Milk Finger for protection. Perhaps the Yokudan would spare some food? But ze didn’t want to risk the wrath of the others--

A sudden, sickening realization cut hir thoughts short: ze was acting like a wild animal. Like a starving nix-hound scampering around a group of urchins, begging for scraps, the same sort of beast ze’d seen kicked aside so many times before. How did ze know that ze was even a mer? By the fact that ze could be fucked? Hatred seized hir throat and ze dug hir nails into hir palms to fight a wave of nausea. If ze were to regain hir sight that instant, what would ze see crouched in the shadows? A chimer whore or some feral underfed animal? What was ze? Some pet kicked out onto the streets once it had lost its usefulness, left to fend for itself, begging mercy from those who hated hir. What was ze?

Hungry. Ze was hungry.

Ze hopped to hir feet and sauntered back over to the fire, deliberately holding hir head high, standing straight and keeping sightless eyes raised, as if in defiance of the pitiful state ze’d ended up in. “It’s a cold night, milords,” ze announced hirself to them, “And I’ve only one body to share. With whom shall I bed?”

A moment’s silence, then ze suddenly felt a sharp tug on hir loincloth. Ze reacted on instinct, knocking the hand aside with hir foot and pointing Milk Finger’s tip in the direction of the offending grasp. “Hey!” the groper, a mer, protested. “I was just looking. Ansu-Utta wasn’t lying-- you are a Mephalan, true as day.”

“A bed and a hot meal and you can peep to your heart’s content. Nothing before that.”

“I’ll take it!” Someone declared behind hir, a voice Vehk recognized as belonging to the captain ze’d tried to woo earlier. With a little smirk of success ze stepped back to him and dropped into a crouch beside him, holding out hir hand expectantly. Someone dropped a hot sphere into it, and upon closer examination ze determined that it smelled exactly like a kwama egg, and promptly set about devouring it as the caravaneers resumed their evening conversation.

“You’d best be careful with that thing, captain. It may have diseases.”

“Watch how you speak of my darling wife.”

“Do you not recall which of our enemies seduces us into corruption? This thing’s an agent of Molag Bal’s, mark my words.”

“Why, are you a priest now? Give me Veloth’s blessing, won’t you?”

Vehk ignored their chatter, leaning against the captain as ze deliberately licked the remains of hir meal from hir fingers. It was warmer by the fire, and the captain had a large body, slightly soft with one arm that even now wrapped around hir back and groped hir rump. So ze was a wild animal-- at least ze still knew hir tricks. Ze could survive this.

A new set of footsteps came trudging up behind them and Ansu-Utta’s familiar purr butted into the conversation. “No sign of life, but there’s a cave at the base of the hill. It doesn’t look as if it’s been inhabited for quite a while, but we’d do well to keep an eye on it.”

“Any other signs of trouble?”

“None.”

“Good, good.” the captain declared. “Sit and eat. We were discussing what we shall do when we arrive at Mournhold-- Felris seems to believe that we should sell to the Indorils instead of the Queen. What say you?”

Vehk shrugged the arm away and moved to sit in the captain’s lap. “Milord, did you know? I’m the Queen’s bastard daughter.”

“Really! I should have your hide whipped for telling such lies.”

“Taste my tongue-- does it taste like a lie?”

“I’ll be tasting much of you later, but for now be silent or I’ll send you away. The Indorils have deep pockets, to be sure, but word is that the Narsishold ‘Jarl’ is taking over their lands more quickly than they can defend it. The Queen has gold aplenty and is desperate for food, seeing as the Nords have been setting all her crops to the torch…”

Vehk’s attention lapsed. Ze rested hir head against the captain’s shoulders, turning hir focus from the conversation to the sounds of the night beyond. It was quiet, for the most part. Without sight it became easy to fancy that one might be suspended in the void, marooned upon an island that consisted only of the warm flesh of a stranger and the chill of the night’s air on hir bare legs. Helpless…

There was a sound in the distance, a deep rumble, almost too soft to be heard, but it made Vehk sit bolt upright and seize the captain’s shoulder. “Sera.”

The captain, who’d been in the middle of a sentence, trailed off with a grunt of irritation. “What is it?”

The sound came again, slightly louder this time, loud enough for Vehk to be sure of its source. “Put out the fire.”

“What? Why? Have you gone soul-sick?”

“Put out the fire, sera. Now.” Ze got to hir feet and, clutching Milk Finger by hir side, turned to address where ze thought the rest of the merchants lay. “Someone’s coming. Get your weapons.”

“You aren’t the captain, whore.” someone growled. “Get out of here! Scram.”

Annoyance surged within hir, combined with rapidly mounting panic. “You fools! They’re coming, the Nords are coming, if you don’t--”

And then time stopped.

Vehk had heard the thu’um once before; it had been issued from the mouth of Chemua and had shaken the masonry of Ebonheart, so strong that even the hardiest of the Velothi had trembled to hear it, and it was awe-inspiring even when ze wasn’t standing in its path.

This shout was chaos incarnated, three words horrifying and awesome and so overwhelming that the very fabric of reality seemed to shriek with protest at the sound of them. The shout was a maelstrom, a storm, meaning made solid, words folded like metal into a blade, and it pierced Vehk to the very core.

When time resumed again ze was lying on hir back. The air surrounding hir had dissolved into chaos, footsteps and the braying of guars and shouting, mer and men alike shouting in confusion and hatred. Ze rolled onto hir stomach and clambered to hir feet, struggling to find hir footing just as the screaming began. The air filled with the smell of blood and the death-cries of the caravaneers, blending cacophonously with the triumphant yells of the invading Nords; it was a battle, a bloody unseen battle, and ze was right in the centre of it.

Ze ran.

Blind, barefoot, ze could hardly see where ze was going. The sounds of the battle were behind hir, but as ze ran another shout shook the ground. Ze stumbled, then hir foot caught a shrub and ze went crashing to the ground, rolling with the momentum of hir frenzied flight. Ze came to a stop, used Milk Finger to launch hirself to hir feet and immediately resumed running, though hir feet were covered in wounds, hir lungs ached with exertion, the terror made hir fear that hir heart was on the brink of stopping.

Suddenly a shout-- “Halt, scamp!”-- and a muscular arm slammed into Vehk’s chest. Ze was swept off hir feet by a Nord who was much larger than hir. Instinct kicked in, and like a feral animal ze turned and sunk hir teeth into the offending arm, biting as hard as ze could. The Nord shouted in pain and ze desperately attempted to ram Milk Finger into flesh-- its tip met muscle of some sort, and the Nord screamed, and Vehk managed to pry hirself away. Ze began running again immediately, spitting blood from hir mouth-- had ze broken a tooth?

The ground beneath hir abruptly turned rocky. A cave, didn’t Ansu-Utta say that there was a cave? Ze fell to hir knees and scrambled across the boulders, probing desperately with both hands and spear, searching for any opening ze might use to hide hirself from the attackers. Hir foot moved through a draft of cool air and ze dropped, groping along the rocks-- yes, this must be a cave, ze could feel the rim of a small chasm. It was barely big enough for hir to force hirself through, scrambling desperately into the rocks.

The cave was a pitiable thing, so small that ze had to drop to hir knees and drag hirself painfully through the narrow sides. And it only seemed to get narrower as ze forced hir way through, hir bare shoulders scraping against the rough rocky walls. The sound of the battle was all but gone now, leaving hir in silent stagnant darkness, and ze imagined what would happen if ze got stuck-- ze would die in here, alone, missed by noone, trapped within the belly of a hill drenched in blood. Hir tormented ghost would wander alone and restless for all time, no ancestors, no descendants, nothing, nothing, just a netchiman’s wife and a cast-out whore, alone, meaningless, alone…

Grasping in front of hir, hir hands suddenly met wood. Ze felt along it, and the shape ze recognized immediately-- it was an ancestral tomb, ancient and long swallowed by the earth. Ze’d crept into similar in Holomayan, and then Ebonheart, for the skooma-dealers’ haunt of choice had always been the disused ancestral tombs hidden beneath the city. Hir hands found a rust-covered handle and after a brief struggle the door swung inwards with a heavy groan.

The inside of the tomb was filled with warm air, so stale and dusty that Vehk coughed upon breathing it in. A moment’s probing with Milk Finger’s shaft revealed that it was a foot taller than hir in the ceiling and wide enough that ze could just touch each wall with hir hands outstretched. The smooth stone beneath hir bare feet sloped slightly downwards and, carefully, ze began to descend.

The sudden silence, the heavy warmth… it felt a little eerie to hir. Vehk’s heart still raced, hir body ached from hir panicked flight. But there was something else, too, a profound sense of wrongness that settled deep within hir bones. Ze felt like an intruder, as if ze’d barged in upon something wholly sacred and ancient, which troubled hir, for ze’d never treated the tombs-come-skooma-dens of Ebonheart with any reverence and it made no sense that this would be different. But this tomb was connected to hir in a way that bore no logical source or explanation, and though the ghosts within didn’t murmur to each other ze had a horrid certainty that they were watching hir, and judging.

The long sloping hallway came to a sudden end at a second door. Ze paused, inexplicably terrified-- at that moment ze was tempted to go back and face the Nordic demons rather than invade further than this. But ze dispelled the foolish notion from hir mind, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Inside was no swirling hellfire, no void, no daedric wrath to bear down on hir like a great storm. There was merely the oppressive weight of stagnant air and ancient ash.

Vehk took hir time, probing around the perimeter of the room with Milk Finger’s shaft, in terrified expectation that at any moment ze’d walk into some horrible primordial form. But the room, ze soon discovered, was nearly empty, occupied only by a wide ash-pit that sat in the centre. The bare remains of long-placed offerings still sat on the brim, though so decayed that Vehk couldn’t tell what they might’ve once been by touch and scent alone. In one corner of the room ze found a pile of rubble, and brief investigation revealed that a hole had been knocked in one wall. Beyond the wall seemed to be a hallway, much wider than the tomb if the way the sound of crunching rubble rang through it. The air here, too, was different, hotter and fresher, with a hint of sulfur and something metallic that clung to the back of the throat. This couldn’t be part of the tomb, could it? Vehk cautiously probed and found that there was only a short drop to the ground. Ze took a deep breath and slid through the hole in the wall, dropping lightly to the floor of the hallway with a dull metal clang.

It was brass, ze realized. Brass beneath hir feet, deliberately laid out in one smooth corridor. Where was ze?

With one hand pressed to the wall so that ze’d be able to find hir way back to the tomb, ze began making hir slow way down the corridor. Fear was climbing within hir again, clashing with sudden curiosity, but ze felt strangely compelled to investigate, and so ze made her cautious way down.

Whatever ze had been expecting to find, it wasn’t voices.

Two voices, in quiet discussion, but growing gradually closer. Ze froze in place. Their voices were unfamiliar, speaking in a grunting foreign tongue ze’d never before heard. Evidently they hadn’t seen her yet-- but there was nowhere ze could run, ze was blind, caught in the open.

And then the voices fell silent, and Vehk knew with terrible certainty that they’d seen hir. For what felt like an eternity ze remained frozen, and there came no sound of footsteps, no voices, no hands grasping hir, only the tight grip of panic coiled around hir throat.

But then one of them let out a shout and ze turned and fled.

Hir hand was on the wall, if ze simply followed it back, ze could find the entrance to the tomb, ze could escape, surely? It wasn’t half as logical in hir mind, for by now ze was acting on the sheer animal impulse of flight-or-fright, only the indomitable will for survival powering hir thoughts, as if ze was truly the wild beast ze’d fancied hirself. But hir fingers burned, hir feet ached, each footstep emitted a dull metal ‘clang’ against the brass floor, and ze couldn’t hear the pursuit that must certainly be coming over the sound of hir own ragged and terrified breath. But-- here! Hir hands found rubble, the hole in the wall just over hir own head, and ze grabbed onto the nearest ledge ze could, scrambling up in a mad dash for freedom. Ze was inches away, ze would make it, hir torso was through the narrow entrance and the dank scent of tomb-ash was filling hir lungs as ze struggled up the wall--

But then ze wasn’t, for the whole world had shifted. A single keening sound blasted through the hall and made all of existence shudder, tearing hir from hir goal, hir safety, hir life.

The last thought that crossed hir mind was ironic and bitter: no wonder ze’d been so scared of the ancestral tomb. It had turned out to be hir own.

 

***

 

One of the most ancient traditions of Mournhold involved was that of ‘the Flinging of the Gates’. The legends went that in the earliest days of the Merethic era Veloth had made the long and dangerous journey from Blacklight to look upon his capital Ebonheart-Mournhold. Mournhold’s Queen of the time, Veloth’s favored concubine and a woman of no small pride, sought to outshine their sister-city in a moment of foolish rivalry and ordered that the 11 gates of Mournhold be flung wide open so that all would know they were invited within the walls. It was a tribute of peace and one of the grandest signs of honour one could receive from the city of light, a gesture made rarely and only for the most powerful of guests.

Considering the profundity of the tradition, Almalexia could understand why her orders to open every gate were met with incredulousness by her Shouts. The fact that they were still at war made the order more controversial still, but Almalexia was firm, and so when a scout sighted on the horizon a party flying great silk flags with emblems of dragons and unfamiliar birds, she issued the order to fling open the eleven great gates, and her tone left no room for even her guards-come-counselors to argue.

Then there was nothing to do but return to Mournhold’s central plaza and take her place among her honour-guard. A truce with one’s ancient enemies required a mighty display of power and she had spared nothing: three hundred and thirty-three Shouts stood in formation within the palace courtyard, three rows of three abreast, each headed by a fearsome commander in defiantly Velothi livery designed to be reminiscent of the Three Good Daedra. (It was, perhaps, ironic that each commander was a Nord, but it would have been in poor taste to scorn her own commanders for the sake of petty cultural squabbles.) And before the legion stood Almalexia’s court: her steward, her First Commander, Duchess Mora Ilinalta Ra’athim in her most beautiful garb, certain merchants of high esteem that had earned her trust. The only one absent was Sotha Sil, but that was intentional. If things turned sour, it would be safest to have her favoured counsellor out of harm’s way, and one could accomplish many things with a shrewd battle-mage up their sleeve besides. Almalexia herself stood at the head-- clad in full ebony, draped in House Dres’ hortator-banners and her own Queens-banners, her sword at her hip, Mournhold’s crown nestled in her high-bound hair.

It was not long before the Nordic honour-guard was in sight. Almalexia was no stranger to the symbolism and culture of the Northern Men, but Barfok’s hoard drew a small gasp from her lips despite herself, for even Chemua in the height of his arrogance had never constructed such an elaborate entourage. There were bearded soldiers in steel, a hundred at least, and a train of Argonian slaves bearing upon their hunched shoulders enormous chitin barrels, flanked with banner-bearers flying silk flags that showed images of foreign birds and fearsome dragons and words in unfamiliar tongues. But if all this was daunting, it was nothing compared to the woman at the head.

“Barfok Plain-Maiden.” Almalexia called out. “Jarl of Narsis-hold. Mournhold welcomes thee and thine with peace.”

Barfok as she’d appeared at the moot had been a homely straw-haired young woman only a few years Almalexia’s elder, thick-armed and bearing perpetually an amused smile; it seemed as if fifteen years had changed both of them, for now Barfok was anything but the innocuous figure that had attended the moot. Perhaps the effect was due to her armor, which appeared to be made of enormous reptilian scales; perhaps it was due to the halberd she bore in one hand, or the great dragon-wing pauldrons that protruded from each of her shoulders, or the enormous twin-bearded Tongue who stood with his battleaxe drawn at her side. She smiled at the greeting, the same lopsided expression Almalexia recalled from the moot, but now it seemed anything but harmless.

“ _Drem Yol Lok_!” Barfok sung back, and the thu’um in the words made Almalexia shiver. “On behalf of the High King of Skyrim, I greet thee with Kyne’s peace. I am honoured to meet with a warrior of thy renowned strength and beauty.”

Ignoring the flattery, Almalexia gestured to her court. “I introduce to thee Mora Valyn, the First Commander of the Guild of Shouts, who are my counselors on behalf of my people. And, on behalf of Ebonheart, the exquisite Duchess Mora Ilinalta Ra’athim.”

“Bhag Twin-Tongued, cousin to the High King and former Jarl of Ebonheart.” Barfok gestured to her own entourage. “And Hlaalu Lleran, Grandmaster of House Hlaalu. Thou may hath been acquainted with his late father, Andrano Llervu, who denied thee at the moot.”

There was a hint of humour in the Jarl’s voice; Barfok had never been one for formalities, Almalexia recalled, she’d spent many an hour listening to Chemua complain about Narsis’ uncouth ruler. So the Queen smiled and dipped into a deep bow. “I welcome thee and thine to Mournhold. My halls are thine; thy men will be posted in our barracks and provided for. I will escort thee to the council-chambers personally, if thou will follow.”

“Gladly! Oh, but first, My Queen--” Barfok stepped forwards, smiling widely. “We’ve heard of Mournhold’s struggles, and Narsis has generously brought forth twenty barrels of saltrice, and scrib jerky and cured nix-hound mets, which are to be distributed amongst the people. Your steward can see to that, I trust?”

“Your kindness will be praised by every man and mer in Mournhold! Gunthir,” Almalexia turned to her steward, “Have the food distributed among the ration-houses. Tell them that all are permitted double rations today, courtesy of the generous Jarl Barfok. I will escort the Jarl and her council inside.”

Gunthir rushed off to obey the orders, and with all formalities over and done with Almalexia turned and lead the Nords into her palace along with her own court. So far things were going well, she mused. Nords, though simple, were at least honourable, and Barfok carried herself with the sort of frank friendliness that was common in Nords, which would help ease the tension of such a difficult negotiation. Or so she hoped.

Barfok, at least, didn’t seem at all stressed about the impending parly. She came to walk alongside Almalexia, looking around at the castle with blatant pleasure. “Ah, Mournhold.” she sighed. “How I’ve missed your city. Would you think me foolish if I praised your masonry? For I’ve always adored elf masonry. Even when Hoag blasted me into your walls, the first thing I thought to myself was: Now, here’s a finely constructed building. Broke five of my ribs and didn’t even have a mark to show for it! They just don’t make them like that anywhere else.”

“There’s ebony ore naturally blended into the stone.” Almalexia informed her, smiling. Now that the formalities were over and done with she found herself relaxing. “You won’t find stronger masonry anywhere. My mother used to say that Mehrunes Dagon could stub his toe on the castle and the toe would lose the battle.”

“That’s the oddest analogy I’ve ever heard. But you ent wrong. I mean, if a building can hold five bickering Tongues and stay propped up on its foundations, I’d wager gold that it’d give a Daedra a run for his money too.” They came to the doors of the Council Chambers and she drew to a halt. “Forgive me, my lady, would you be offended if Bhag and I retired momentarily before we begin? These pauldrons weigh about as much as the dragon they came from, and though my heart longs for peace, my shoulders are protesting.”

“I would not be offended. First Commander Valyn will escort you to your chambers.”

“My shoulders thank you most graciously!” On that light-hearted note, Barfok bowed and turned to follow the First Captain down the hall. The fully-armored Shout that was evidently Bhag, rotund and helmeted, paused only to give her a nod before following Barfok down the hallway, and the young Grandmaster Hlaalu followed hastily after them.

“I don’t like this.” Ilinalta confessed in a murmur, moving close to Almalexia once they’d left. “Why is she so friendly? And the other one… he’s so quiet. I feel badly about this, Ayem.”

“There is nothing to fear, sera.” Almalexia took her hand and squeezed it. “We are not at a disadvantage here. All the advantages are within my sleeves, we need merely to wait for the chance to use them.”

“I pray you’re right; I’m so scared…”

Almalexia guided her into the Council Chambers. “Do not fear. Again, we’ve all the advantages.” her voice lowered slightly. “Why do you think Sotha Sil is not attending this parley? I’ve asked him to keep watch, and he’s clever. If they try anything he’ll put a stop to it immediately.”

“Would that I could trust in him as much as you do. These Nords-- there is something peculiar about this all, sera. I don’t recall Bhag ever being so silent when I met him in Ebonheart.”

“Perhaps he’s as nervous as you are. Isn’t he rather young?”

“His reputation was that of a brash hedonist. I doubt he’s suffering a case of anxiety.”

Almalexia took her seat in the throne, while Ilinalta lingered anxiously next to her. “You worry too much.” Almalexia chided her. “Trust in your Queen; we have the blessings of Boethiah himself.”

But the Duchess remained unsettled, and so Almalexia attempted to comfort her with little anecdotes that her Shouts had shared with her, stories of dragons in Skyrim and jokes whose punchlines always seemed to be the idiocy of Nords, until Barfok finally returned. The Jarl had changed into a simple gown with exquisite silk embroidery, and though she still carried with her the ornate dragon-bone halberd she seemed as at ease here as if she were attending a dinner party. Mora Valyn followed her in, alongside the Grandmaster Hlaalu, and then--

Almalexia must’ve reacted on instinct, for she didn’t recall standing up, nor did she recall drawing her sword. But she found herself standing rigid before the throne, face-to-face with the perfect apparition of Chemua.

The Nordic guards immediately moved to shelter the Tongue from an attack, while Ilinalta Ra’athim let out a cry of alarm and stepped back. “Lady Ayem?”

Almalexia blinked. Where Chemua had stood not moments before was a different Nord, thick-set and twin-bearded and smiling in vague bemusement. She stared at him for several seconds, blinking-- was her mind playing tricks on her? Off to the side someone coughed, and she slowly returned her sword to the scabbard before sinking back into her throne. “Pardon me,” she said stiffly, “I mistook you for someone else.”

“Alduin himself, by the look on your face.” said Bhag-- for it certainly was Bhag, she recognized him from Ebonheart. Almalexia smiled thinly, the rest of the attendants took their places, and without further disturbance, the parley began.

“The High King has permitted me to make you a generous offer.” As the guest, Barfok spoke first, without standing. Her tone was easy, without formality, and she smiled the whole while as she spoke. “He’s willing to give you the title of Jarl and let Mournhold rejoin the Nordic empire as its own Hold. You’ll have all the independence that any Jarl does, no need for all this pesky strife.”

“And have Hoag tax us until we bleed?” Almalexia replied sharply. “I reject your offer. Here is my own: the southern mainland will become an independent Veloth. You will surrender all land between Kragenmoor and Necrom and all lands south of those. In exchange for your cooperation Barfok will be permitted to remain a Duchess of nominal power within her Hold, provided she swears loyalty to myself and renounces all ties with Skyrim.”

Barfok’s smile flickered slightly. “Now, I’m sure Hoag could be persuaded to be lenient with the taxes, especially if you were to swear fealty in person. Oaths go along way for a Nord.”

“With all due respect, I’m reluctant to swear fealty to one whose name is ‘Mer-Killer’, let alone send him my troops.”

“King Cruethys and House Mora are willing to consider a Hold arrangement,” Ilinalta Ra’athim interrupted. “But only on the condition we’re allowed to reclaim Kragenmoor and all associated lands. Our soldiers won’t participate in any wars, and House Hlaalu must pay taxes directly to Ebonheart on all slaving contracts.”

“Absolutely not.” Hlaalu Llervan, thusfar silent, interjected. “If House Mora wishes to dip its fingers in our slaving contracts, it will have to find a better way. Despite our generous cooperation with the Nords, House Hlaalu is not about to just hand over hard-earned gold!”

“Then the Nords will need find a different incentive for our cooperation.”

“Ebonheart and Mournhold were sisters in the time of Veloth,” Almalexia said, “But as all siblings, we now walk different paths. Mournhold will not take a Hold arrangement, and if you wish us to stay our hand you must surrender eastern Deshaan, and Necrom.”

Barok’s expression grew stiffer. “Kragenmoor is Bhag’s current seat.” she said, turning to her fellow Tongue. “What say you to the Duchess' offer?”

Bhag considered this. “While I’m not willing to surrender my entire city, why don’t I just let Ebonheart dip into my own taxes? And I’ll open up trading to your elves. Probably good for the economy or some such thing.”

“House Hlaalu has no slaving contracts in Kragenmoor.” Llervan conceded. “The Ra’athim would be able to establish themselves there, if there was interest…”

“ _Gol hah!_ ” Barfok sung out with a grin. “Oh-- that’s a Nordic expression, pardon my tongue, it means ‘a fine arrangement’. So what say you, fair Duchess Ilinalta?”

Almalexia glanced to the girl by her side-- Ilinalta had an odd expression, her lips pursed together in deep thought. “I suppose…” she began, uncertainly, “I suppose Cruethys would accept this offer… a Hold agreement, with he as Jarl, and trading in Kragenmoor…”

“Excellent!” Barfok praised her. “You’re a wise woman, arranging such a deal like that. I’m certain your brother will be pleased.”

Almalexia felt her heart plummet. Had she lost Ebonheart to the Nords already? She had the momentary urge to turn around and throttle the Duchess, but she forced herself to make do with a deep grimace. “Ebonheart will bend its knee, then.” she said, with some difficulty. “But Mournhold remains stalwart. We will accept only independence.”

“We have you surrounded.” Barfok pointed out. “Why should we allow your independence? Skyrim could hassle you until Alduin eats the world.”

Almalexia smiled. “Because if you do, we’ll take the Dwemer off your backs. You do want them out of Dunmeth pass, don’t you?”

By the tense silence that immediately descended over the Nords Almalexia knew that Sotha Sil’s informants had been correct. Barfok and Bhag exchanged an uncomfortable glance and she watched them closely, waiting for the retaliation.

“That would be a boon.” Barfok finally confessed, with a smile that failed to reach her eyes.

Almalexia sat back. “Dwemer are a formidable foe. They have machines, brass titans that can’t be felled with sword or axe alone. It would take twenty good Nords to topple even one Dwemer construct-- and the Dwemer have tens, no, hundreds at their disposal. But the Chimer have been fighting them as long as we can recall. We know their weaknesses and have our ways of defeating them. First Commander Valyn?”

The aged mer stood, spreading his hands on the table. “I’ve readied a garrison of Shouts.” he reported dutifully. “A vanguard of twenty battle-mages and one hundred able Chimer warriors, aided by twenty spell-casters and thirty of our finest centurion-dispatching rogues. They’re ready to move north immediately, serjo, as soon as you give the order.”

“This changes things…” Barfok murmured to herself. “Surely Hoag would… no…” she looked to Almalexia, “Surely you cannot hope to reclaim the pass in the middle of winter? It’s choked with snow, not even a Nord could get through that.”

“Oh, but that’s the best time to take it.” Valyn replied. “The Dwemer constructions function on heat and steam. If we sneak in while there’s snow aplenty they won’t have the time to thaw half their army out. And our rogues are very good at deactivating automotons, I assure you.”

“Bhag,” Barfok turned with a frown to her fellow Nord, “Has Hoaga plans to retake the pass?”

“He assured me that he’s… working on it.”

“An independent Mournhold would also be open to trade,” Almalexia urged them, turning her attention to the Hlaalu Grandmaster. “We’ve much coin at our disposal. Crops and weapons, fewer so. And if our sister Ebonheart,” a cutting glance towards Ilinalta, “Has rejoined Skyrim, then we’ve no reason not to consider one contract over another, if you understand me correctly.”

Hlaalu Llervan’s eyebrows peaked at these words, and he leaned over to Barfok, whispering a few curt words to the obviously troubled Jarl.

“I… forgive me.” Barfok stood abruptly. “May I request a pause? I need to send a message to the High King.”

“I’ll permit it.” Almalexia stood as well. “We adjourn tomorrow, an hour after daybreak. In the meantime the hospitality of Mournhold is yours to enjoy. A modest dinner has been arranged for tonight, which will be attended by several notable merchants and citizens-- I hope that you do us the honour of attending. Until then, farewell.”

She bowed as the Nords filed out of the room. A quick word and Mora Valyn followed them, as did the posted Shouts, leaving Almalexia alone with Ilinalta Ra’athim.

“Forgive me,” Ilinalta blurted out the moment the door shut, “I don’t know what came over me. She looked at me that way and I couldn’t stop myself, it was as if I wasn’t in control of my own lips, please--”

“Be silent.” Almalexia commanded her. The girl fell silent, shrinking away from the obviously livid Queen. Almalexia took a deep breath and, ignoring her, turned to the corner. “Sotha Sil?”

With the soft whoosh of a dispel, Sotha Sil appeared in the corner.

“Did you hear everything?” Almalexia asked.

“Everything.”

“Good.” She turned back to the cowering Ilinalta. “This one has a lot to answer for. You spoiled fool, what were you thinking?! You’ll be lucky if Cruethys doesn’t outright deny this decision, and even if he doesn’t, you’ve splintered the alliance, have you _any_ idea--”

“Ayem.” Sotha Sil cut her off. Her hand had been raised, as if on the verge of striking, but now her counselor grabbed it as if to stay it. “What does ‘Gol Hah’ mean?”

“What?”

“The two words Barfok sung out. What do they mean?”

Almalexia frowned, racking her brain for what little Ancient Nordic she knew. “Earth and… and mind. Earth, mind.”

“Could it have been a shout? Used to ‘persuade’ Ilinalta in Barfok’s favor.”

“You’re dismissed.” Almalexia said stiffly, nodding towards Ilinalta. The Duchess whimpered a quick word of appreciation and, bowing deeply, fled the room.

“So what’s our next move, then?” she demanded of Sotha Sil once they were alone.

“We need House Hlaalu.” Sotha Sil replied firmly. “If anyone can supply us with the weaponry we need, it’s them. They’ve sided with the Nords, but Llervan can be persuaded. Focus on him and Barfok may be incentivized to follow.”

“And Bhag?”

“Mere muscle, but… why did you flinch? Have you met him before?”

Almalexia grimaced. “I need you to protect me from her thu’um. Find a way to do that, the sooner the better. I’m going to speak with my steward.”

“Almalexia…”

“Until we next speak.” And with that she left the room.

 

***

 

The cell was small, perhaps five paces wide and three long. It was constructed of brass, with a solid metal floor and bars on each side, each one three fingers wide, with three finger’s width between each bar. The floor was a little sticky, and upon closer inspection there seemed to be a thin tacky residue on its surface, which had to be scraped off, and smelt utterly foul when one held their finger under their nose after scraping. The ceiling was also solid brass, completely immoveable. There didn’t seem to be a door.

Of course, this information was all utterly useless to Vehk. It didn’t tell hir who hir captors were, or what fate awaited hir. More than ever ze wished ze had hir sight back; ze’d never felt so helpless in hir life.

If ze stuck hir nose outside of the bars ze could smell copper, and something dusty, vaguely reminiscent of smoke. The air was slightly humid, and warm, much warmer than it would be on the surface. There was hardly any sound, save occasional footsteps and, if one held their breath and remained utterly silent, what may have been distant voices.

How long had ze been in here? It was impossible to say-- it could’ve been minutes or it could’ve been hours. And that wasn’t accounting for the time ze’d been unconscious.

Was ze dead? Was this real?

Hir throat was parched.

“Hey!” ze shouted. The cry remained unanswered but for its own forlorn echoes. Ze sunk back against the cage and down to the floor, curling tight into a ball with hir knees clutched to hir chest.

There was a strange hiss, like an overflowing kettle. Odd mechanical sounds that ze’d never heard before, and something like a ball rolling across stone. Ze scrambled to hir feet and pressed hir ear through the bars of the cage, straining to listen--

There was a sharp pain in hir ear. Ze reeled back, clapping her palm to hir ear, and ze found with horror that it was soaked in blood, that something had cut it. Whimpering, ze backed up against the cage, sinking into a defensive ball. “Who’s there? What do you want with me!”

No reply but the soft hiss of steam and something rolling across brass. Hir hand was sticky with hir own blood, hir ear aching, and ze tenderly felt along the cut-- it was _deep_ , having made it almost halfway through the cartilage. Nausea climbed in hir throat; again ze recalled how helpless ze was, how at the mercy of hir captors. And did hir captors know such thing as mercy? Certainly not, if they’d lock hir in this cold cage, slice hir ear, and remain mute to hir cries, responding only with their odd technological clanging. A sob shook hir, a futile and fearful sound, and ze found hirself banging against the cage with hir un-bloodied hand, desperate to elicit some sort of reaction, and screaming again. “Who are you?! What are you going to do to me?!”

But in the distance-- footsteps! Ze immediately drew back and listened; two pairs of footsteps, clanging against the brass floor and accompanied by something rolling on metal, and voices. Two deep voices conversed in a guttural language that Vehk had never heard before, and ze strained to understand their incomprehensible tongue.

The footsteps and the conversation came to a stop directly before hir cage. The voices continued their quiet discourse, and Vehk pressed as far back as ze could away from them, listening though ze couldn’t understand the tongue, and dreading.

“You.” one voice finally spoke, in gruff Aldmeris, with a thick and unfamiliar accent. “You are wake?”

“I’m awake, I’m awake. Who are you? What do you want with me? I’m just a Netchiman’s wife, I can’t be ransomed for anything, don’t hurt me, please--”

“You are… change mer?”

“What?”

“Chimer. Foe mer. You are?”

Vehk whimpered, and found that hir throat was too dry to manage a response. One of hir captors murmured something to the other, and then there were the sounds of footsteps, and something rolling.

“For whom do you spy?” One of the captors finally asked.

“I spy for nobody! I’m-- I’m just a whore, a Netchiman’s wife, I’m nobody!”

“Do not lie.”

“I’m not lying, I…” hir voice broke and ze sobbed, pushing hirself so far back against the cage that it felt as if hir back would break. “Please.”

One of the voices gave an order in that horrible guttural language. It must’ve been an order, for suddenly the bars disappeared and ze fell backwards. Ze immediately struggled to hir feet and tried to run-- only to collide instantly with a wall, a sickening _crunch_ resounding within hir skull at the impact, and ze staggered back. Before ze’d even begun to process the pain of what seemed to be a broken nose there were hands around hir wrists, cold metal digits with edges sharp as knives, and ze screamed at the top of hir lungs, struggling desperately to break free.  But the machine-hands were too strong, they dragged hir back, back onto some horrible table, and suddenly they were binding hir hands, and no matter how ze screamed and struggled ze couldn’t escape hir fate. They bound hir spread-eagle, like an animal ready for the butcher, and ze could only tug at the bindings and arch hir back and writhe and plead, desperately, “Please, oh, the Three, please--!”

“Valdin.”

A single word, nonsense to the chimer’s ears, and yet to hear it filled hir with dread deeper than ze’d ever known. Dread deeper than the dread of Molag Bal’s purple temple-shrines, dread deeper than the foulest skooma-hallucination or Vaermina’s worst nightmares, sheer dread--

Then the knives began.

With each blade that touched hir skin that voice would ask its questions. “Whom do you spy for?” “What city?” “Who are you?” “How did you enter?” And Vehk would tell them, tell them the truth-- ze spied for nobody, ze came from Vvardenfell, ze was just a whore, a netchiman’s wife. Then the blades descended, and tides of sticky warmth cascaded down hir torso, hir arms, hir thighs. More questions-- the same answers, screamed now, in a breaking voice, between sobs and an uncoordinated gibber of ‘please’ and ‘don’t’. But it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t enough. Cold brass fingers continued to carve searing lines over hir flesh, and that deep voice growled its questions over and over, heedless of the true answers that spilled from Vehk’s lips.

Ze was the Netchiman’s wife. Just a Netchiman’s wife on her way to Mournhold to meet her mother. Ze was nobody. This wasn’t happening. How much blood had poured from hir limbs? Hir throat was burning, each convulsion of hir body caused hir cuts to pull apart and bleed anew. And still they asked their questions. What could ze tell them? Ze was just the Netchiman’s wife, and the egg safe within her, they couldn’t touch the egg, was that what they wanted? Ze was just a Netchiman’s wife…

Hir head spun, hir body dropped away, and ze retreated to the shelter of oblivion.

 

***

 

Ze awoke in a dirty cage. The floor was covered with sticky copper residue, the bars were thick and gleaming the sickly dull color of unpolished brass. Beyond the cage lay a wide chamber, poorly lit and arrayed with all manner of strange implements, from weaponry racks to long tables with wooden pillars from which dangled thick ropes. The cage sat against one stone wall of the room, and in the centre Vehk could see a slanted table, surrounded by viscous puddles of drying blood--

Memory hit hir at the same moment that the realization that ze could _see_ did. Ze let out an involuntary cry and scrambled upright-- ze’d been sprawled on the sticky floor. Then ze recoiled, as if some part of hir expected the very act of moving to be excruciatingly painful-- only to realize that ze held no physical injury, despite the memories of the torture that had come so shortly before. And ze could see.

Ze dragged hir trembling hands over hir face. There was blood on it, but no cuts, no gaping wounds left by metal fingers. Ze turned hir eyes downcast and found that hir limbs, though similarly bloodied, also remained unmarred. Even the cut in hir ear was gone, as were any scars ze’d once been able to find on hir body. It was as if ze’d been left as unblemished as the day ze was born, and this fact brought no relief but only horrid fear. Ze was shaking so badly that ze found ze couldn’t stand, and with nothing to hide behind in the tiny cage ze shrunk back into a corner, wrapping hir arms tightly around hir torso. A little sob crept from hir throat at the memory of the pain ze’d been subjected to. What did they want from hir?

A soft, familiar hiss of steam, so close that Vehk flinched back. Next to the cage bobbed a strange and complex automoton, some strange creature made of metal and gears. It looked like a skeleton mounted on a perfect sphere, and every few moments steam would hiss from its brass body. It bobbed gently to and fro, keeping its balance with clockwork perfection, and its hands-- Vehk had to stop looking, for its hands were made of knives, and coated in dried blood.

Another sob shook hir and ze curled into a ball. Ze was just a Netchiman’s wife, what did they want with hir? Hir heart was racing, hir body shaking so badly that hir bony shoulders rattled against the bars of the cage. Hir throat ached and ze wished desperately for a drink of water.

Footsteps, ze once again heard those hideously familiar footsteps echoing through the chamber. Ze raised hir head and saw two forms, tall mer with bronze skin, stranger than ze’d ever seen. One ze recognized immediately-- it had a long beard and was fully clad in brass armor, carrying a sword at its side. The other was slightly shorter, its beard was jeweled with glass and slender chains, and instead of armor it wore layers of robes inlaid with foreign runes in spun gold. _Dwemer_.

They came to a stop directly in front of Vehk’s cage and exchanged quiet words, sparing the occasional glance towards their captive. Vehk cowered in hir corner, legs clutched to hir chest, eyes darting between the two of them. Ze couldn’t understand what they were saying, but ze couldn’t quite hear them over hir own frantic pulse and hir own short struggling breaths.

Finally one of them turned to face hir, the one in the armor. “You.”

“Don’t hurt me.” Vehk sobbed. Tears were pouring down hir face, ze realized, ze was trembling so hard ze could barely make hir lips form words. “Please. Please. I’m just a Netchiman’s wife. Have mercy. Please…”

The armored dwarf said something to its robed companion, who gave a simple nod in response. The armored one raised its hand and barked out an order, and at its words the bars to the cage sunk into the ground with a quiet hiss. Vehk tried to stand and found that hir legs refused to support hir-- not that it mattered, for within moments ze’d been seized by the automotons and was dragged back to the dreaded bloodied table.

“Don’t hurt me!” ze shouted, even as they lashed hir spread-eagle to the plinth. “I’ve told you all I know, I’m not a spy, I know nothing! I’m a Netchiman’s wife, I’m just a Netchiman’s wife…”

The armored dwarf asked a question to its companion, who wordlessly stepped in front of Vehk, facing hir with an expression unreadable. “Please don’t hurt me,” Vehk pleaded, hir voice growing quicker, higher in pitch, more frantic, as the robed dwarf extracted a strange machine from the folds of its gown and held it aloft--

Nothing could have prepared Vehk to be the subject of tonal architecture. To the ears it was a single note, long and sweet and jarring all at once. To the skin it was like insects swarming over flesh, to the eyes a subtle shifting of the matter around them; the moment it sounded something changed, disappeared.

What disappeared were hir bones.

‘Disappeared’, or perhaps turned to dust, but whatever had happened the result was immediate agony. Ze tried to shriek, but without the support of hir spine hir neck was sliding and hir throat collapsing, hir head was caving in, and all ze could manage was a wet rasp, a disgusting little sound. This was wrong, sickening, repulsive to its core, that haunting tone filled the chamber--

Suddenly it stopped. Ze was whole again, hir bones safely within hir flesh. Ze sucked in breath after desperate breath, flexing hir hands to ensure that ze could feel hir digits, trying desperately to blink sweat and tears out of hir eyes.

“Whom do you spy for?” asked one of the Dwemer in its thickly accented Aldmeris.

“I’m not a spy.” Vehk choked out. “I’ve told you. I’m just a Netchiman’s wife…”

“Chun.” The armored dwarf told its companion. The tone sounded again, in a slightly different pitch, and this time it peeled the skin from hir body. Vehk screamed, screamed and writhed against the bindings until hir wrists threatened to break, convulsing as strips of flesh were torn away by the ethereal sound--

It stopped and ze was unharmed again. “How did you enter?”

“Through the tomb, there was a tomb in a cave, I found the hole in the wall and crept through and I ended up here, I didn’t mean to--”

“Chun.”

The sound rang out, slightly altered, and pulled the muscle from hir bone, scraping flesh from limb. Ze was still screaming when ze realized it had stopped and the next question was asked.

“Where did you come from?”

“The ocean. Bal Fell. Coldharbour. I don’t know. Please don’t. Please stop. Mercy. Please.”

“Chun.”

Another pitch, and each nerve in hir body was set afire until it seemed as if ze were on the brink of death.

“What do you know of Mournhold?”

“I don’t. I don’t know anything. Mother Ayem lives there. I was to meet her. Please don’t hurt me. Stop, I’m just a Netchiman’s wife, I know nothing…”

The two dwarves exchanged words, and Vehk slumped against hir restraints and tried to regain hir breath through hir violent sobs. But then the sound had started again and hir blood had turned to lava in hir veins and ze was cooking alive and when ze tried to cry out only steam escaped hir lips.

“Whom do you serve?”

“I don’t know. Dram, whoever pays. Pay coin. I serve… I serve Molag Bal, please don’t hurt me, please stop, please, please, I’ll do anything, I’m just a Netchiman’s wife…”

The robed dwarf said something to its companion, and through a haze of pain and terror Vehk fancied that ze could understand the meaning behind its words. It was telling the armored one that ze was of no use to them, a waste of time. Ze shuddered, spat out blood and bile, wrenched against the bindings. “Please,” ze rasped, “Don’t…”

“We won’t.” The robed dwemer said, in its own tongue. Sound filled the chamber and Vehk remembered nothing after.

 

***

 

There were voices, the same voices arguing. Vehk, half-asleep and shivering on the sticky cage floor, tried to listen. They weren’t speaking Aldmeris, but ze knew this tongue, and ze gradually came to realize that these voices were speaking in Dreughic. Gruff, babbling, often using unfamiliar words, but ze knew it from hir childhood and ze strained to hear what they were saying. Fire, they said-- bthan, wasn’t it molag in Chimeris? Only ashlanders and nobles spoke Chimeris. Information, something about spies, stanzas, and words, and eggs--

Ze was tousled awake. Groggy, ze felt the floor sliding beneath hir, and the knife-hands of the circle-automotons clasped hir by the ankles. Ze was being dragged across a rough brass floor, and ze struggled to sit up, finding that hir body wouldn’t quite obey hir, not with memories of excruciating pain so fresh. What fate was ze being taken to? Ze barely managed to raise hir head and look around-- ze was being dragged past furnaces, and beside hir were the brass boots of the torturer, keeping steady pace.

They arrived at some sort of stone pit and Vehk was unceremoniously lifted from the floor. A whimper caught in hir throat and was immediately silenced when ze came face-to-face with the stoic bearded torturer.

“You are stubborn.” the tormenter said slowly. “All surface mer are. No longer. This is the furnace,” and Vehk was turned to face a great pit of magma, so hot that molten metal flowed like water from the pipes of its bowels. “You will speak. Or you will burn. Understand?”

“I’ve told you everything,” Vehk uttered. “I’m just a Netchiman’s wife… I don’t know… I can’t... “

“You are a liar. And we value only truth. But we will find your truth. One way or another.”

And the torture began anew.

 

***

 

Hir world was a haze of pain. Ze was suspended in midair, floating above hir own body while simultaneously lying on the floor of the cell, motionless but for the occasional laboured rise and fall of hir chest. Ze didn’t have the energy left to tremble, or feel afraid. Perhaps there was fear somewhere in hir, or sadness, or the capacity to hurt any more than ze already was, but it was gone, ze couldn’t find it and ze couldn’t bring hirself to try. The world was dark and silent, all dull brass and the brown of hir own drying blood. When breath came rattling from hir parched throat it stirred locks of hir own white hair that lay strewn around the floor of the cage, discarded after ze’d pulled them out.

Ze was fifteen years old-- maybe fourteen, maybe sixteen, nobody could say for sure. Hir life had been turbulent and miserable, a sad progression from urchin-whore to dreughling to acolyte and right back to urchin-whore. Everywhere ze’d ever called home had cast hir out, everyone ze’d ever found it within hir heart to love had abandoned hir. Ze was no better than a wild animal, a stray to be exploited and, ultimately, thrown away. Without family, without a House, without a friend in the world that ze could recall. Nobody that would notice how ze’d disappeared into the womb of the earth, or mourn hir absence, or leave offerings for hir ghost. Would ze leave a ghost? Or had hir soul already been claimed by Molag Bal, doomed to the shackles of Coldharbour for all of eternity? And what had ze done to deserve this?

Ze wasn’t alone. Someone was standing by hir head, silent, unmoving, almost as if not there at all. Vehk rolled onto hir back and tried to make out its face through blood-sticky eyes.

“Oh, my poor child.” they sighed. “Oh, my poor Vehk.”

“I have nothing for you.” Vehk rasped, barely above a whisper. “Leave me. Go away.”

The figure stooped, kneeling next to hir form. They looked familiar, Vehk realized dimly; they looked like hir, if not more masculine, the face was gentle, and the expression tender and kind.

“Be still, my child.” he said. “Soon it will be over. Soon you will have peace.”

“Who are you? What do you want with me…”

“Don’t be afraid. You’re of my blood, and the ancestors of the Chimer people linger. We do this to protect.”

“You’re my ancestor?”

“My name is Veloth.”

Vehk sunk into the floor, no longer able to hold hir head up. “Am I going to die?” ze whispered.

“Death comes to all. Living is difficult; death is the respite we long for. Do not fear it.”

“I don’t understand why this is happening. I’m just a Netchiman’s wife.”

“There are reasons for everything. One day you will understand why you are here.”

“They’re burning me. They’re going to burn me like a corpse. I’m... I’m so scared.”

The spirit-- for it must have been a spirit-- rested his hand on Vehk’s shoulder, and a sob shook hir, elicited by the gesture of kindness that ze’d so long craved.

“The fire is yours.” Veloth said. “Let it consume thee. And make a secret door, at the altar of Padhome, in the house of Boethiah, where you become safe, and looked after.”

There came the sound of footsteps, distant but growing closer, and the familiar sounds of Dwemer voices. But Vehk wasn’t afraid.

“The fire is mine... “ ze murmured, “Let it consume thee. And make a secret door, at the altar of Padhome… In the house of Boethiah…”

The footsteps were closer now, the voices quick and menacing. Ze closed hir eyes and brought to mind images of daedra, of the home ze’d never known, and stories ze'd never heard. Ze thought of the spell which had been whispered to hir before ze had the capacity to remember.

“Where we become safe and looked after.”

The Netchiman’s wife was at peace. Veloth was gone. Vehk raised hir head and saw the robed Dwemer from before, bearing in its arms a living paradox, a sound indescribable. But ze wasn’t afraid, and ze smiled, sincerely and warmly, even as that horrible fate bore down upon hir and turned the world to chaos.

It was as peaceful a death ze could have asked for.

 

***

 

“This amulet will begin to burn if the thu’um is used in its presence.” Sotha Sil had said, fixing about Almalexia’s neck a square medallion of ebony and brass rods. “I couldn’t find a way to negate the effect, but this will at least alert you to treachery. It resonates in much the same way the earth-bones do when-- well, the point is that it will grow hot. Don’t ask me where I got the materials to do this. And stay safe, please.”

Sotha Sil himself had declined to attend the dinner. Allegedly he had someone to meet, though he would not reveal who or for what purpose, and Almalexia knew better by now than to press her friend for information he didn’t wish to reveal. Perhaps they were simply growing distant-- she was cautious now, even around the man she considered her dearest friend. So when he’d kissed her cheek and bid her a good evening, she’d waited not long after his departure before removing the amulet from the sensitive skin of her neck and instead concealing it her pocket, before going about her preparations for the evening’s events.

The dinner wasn't exactly a grandiose one, as Mournhold was still pained for resources, but Almalexia had told her cooks to prepare days in advance and so when the Nords arrived in the beautifully decorated dining chambers they were greeted by a feast. Plates of kwama eggs arranged among wreaths of bittergreen; whole mudcrabs still steaming from the pots; racks of tender white flesh that House Dres asserted was crocodile from the swamps of Tear, and sold them at a price cheap enough that Almalexia overlooked their dubious origin; wheels of scuttle served on warm loaves of whickweat bread. The banquet was supplemented with pitchers of mulled sujamma and small crystal bottles of Dagoth brandy, and the spices emanating from the warm drinks were enough to tantalize any outlander. “A meal fit for Sovngarde!” Barfok declared upon entering the hall, and her continued praises throughout the meal left Almalexia in no doubt that this part of the parley, at least, had been a wild success.

Dining was steeped in culture regardless of which province one was in, and played a role in social customs in every culture known to Tamriel. For the chimer, dinner parties weren’t so much a gesture of hospitality as they were just another field to play political games on-- the grandeur and rarity of the cuisine served, for instance, was a boast of power, and the constant threat of being poisoned by a political enemy meant that diners risked their lives with every course. In contrast, the Nords viewed dinners as opportunity to instill a ‘human’ element into the political charade that so many of them found distasteful, and so Almalexia’s banquet quickly turned into something more of a revel than the careful web of below-table negotiations she’d prepared for. As well as all those men and mer who’d been present at the earlier council, Almalexia had invited several prominent merchants to woo Hlaalu’s Grandmaster, and her most highly esteemed Shouts were present to share tales of battles that earned the reluctant respect of even the hardiest Nords. The night had barely begun before the hall was filled with laughter, the mood turning light and jovial-- in a word, Nordic.

Almalexia herself ate and drank little, busy as she was flitting around the massive table and mingling with each of her guests in turn, but it was hard not to feel a little drunk on the sheer good-natured revelry of the dinner regardless. It was almost surprising, how easily the two Tongues had been able to put her court at ease. Any newly independent peoples carried in their hearts no small amount of fierce patriotism, as well as an innate hatred for those who’d oppressed them previously-- and yet this gathering was as easy and joyous as if it were a family reunion rather than the cautious meeting of two different races. And the more that the mead and sujamma flowed, the more a rather drunk Ilinalta Ra’athim flirted clumsily with a giggling Hlaalu retainer, the more her own Nord-born Commanders compared war-stories with Barfok’s Commanders, the more Bhag shared bawdy jokes about Argonian slaves and the shady caravans they’d commandeered in the Stonefalls, the more Almalexia became aware that, for all her efforts and all her strength, her people had yet to cast aside their Nordic influence. As the night wore on and someone called in a bard to host a few friendly rounds of dancing, the more this began to trouble her, though she couldn’t quite say why.

Near the end of the night she’d found herself lingering in a small group, listening with mild amusement as Bhag shared the story of an ancestor of his, a man known only as King Suretur. As the legends went, King Suretur had been a bandit chief who’d made his living raiding the small settlements around Ivarstead on the base of Throat-Of-The-World. One day, seeking more power, he’d climbed the seven thousand steps to the top of the mountain, and gained audience with Master Paarthurnax, the great dragon who was sent by Kyne to teach the Nords how to wield the thu’um. (At this point, the chimer in attendance tittered to each other and made remarks about the Nordic penchant for exaggeration, but Almalexia listened on with interest). Paarthurnax asked what form of power Suretur sought, and Suretur declared that he wished to be able to summon armies with his voice. So for five long years Suretur meditated, and studied the ancient ways of the Voice, and learned under Paarthurnax, until at last he was prepared to use the Shout the great dragon had taught him. However, when Suretur spoke the three words of power, no army appeared. In fact, something quite different happened: he was transformed into the shape of a dragon! (At this point many chimer began to laugh, for Bhag had such a comical way of speaking that it was hard not to be caught up in the story). Suretur was immensely furious-- looking like a dragon isn’t the same of having the powers of a dragon, Bhag explained, and so his Shout was largely useless-- and when Paarthurnax told him only to meditate on it the self-proclaimed King descended the mountain in a huff, cheated of his five years.  

“So it’s a cautionary tale against hubris!” Declared one of the audience, a Hlaalu emissary in mage-robes with an intoxicated young merchant hanging from his side. “How quaintly Nordic! A little daft, but amusing nonetheless!”

“It’s a cautionary tale against your hasty tongue, elf!” Bhag replied. “You haven’t heard the end yet. King Suretur stormed back to Ivarstead, keen to get to the inn and drink away his misery. Well, as if the fates hadn’t yet given our dear King enough, what should happen but that he enters the inn and meets his old bandit crew! They recognize him and immediately get to teasing him-- so are you a big strong Tongue now, Suretur? Do you know how to Shout? Are you gonna invade Windhelm like you said? They tease and jeer and mock, until Suretur reaches his boiling point. He stands up, smashes his flagon, and, forgetting that it doesn’t do nothing, he uses his Shout-- he immediately takes the form of a dragon!

“Of course, he can’t breathe fire or rip them apart with his claws, the Shout’s no good like that. But that doesn’t matter, for they all go silent. One by one drop to their knees in front of him, all but the new chief. The new chief is younger, stronger than Suretur, could easily best him in a fight-- but Suretur needs only give the order and his new bandit army rips the man to shreds. No Nord’s going to disobey a dragon. And they went on to conquer Windhelm, for Suretur’s armies were stronger than any other-- not for the quality of the men, but for the fact they had something to fight for: a dragon-King!”

There were chuckles, and murmurs of appreciation for the clever twist the tale had taken. “How wonderful!” Ilinalta declared-- she’d been hovering about Almalexia for most of the night and had joined in time to hear the end of the story. “Cruethys alway said that if you want to inspire anyone you need a proper figure to follow. A Hortator, that’s what our people call it, a champion! Someone strong whom everyone loves and desires to serve. Oh, Almalexia, you need a champion of your own!”

“Have I not championed our people enough, sera?”

The Duchess, drunk, missed the obvious warning note in her Queen’s tone. “Oh, no, I just meant someone actually _chimer_ , not someone like…”   

Bhag had launched into some other bawdy antidote, and Ilinalta trailed off, becoming absorbed in the story before she could explain what Almalexia was ‘like’. Almalexia detached the girl’s hand from her arm and slipped away from the throng, a bitter taste suddenly rising in her mouth; the mingling smell of mead and sujamma seemed sour in her nostrils and she rushed to the door to take in a breath of fresh air.

The palace courtyard was sparsely occupied at this time of night, populated only by the Shouts on duty and an amorous couple indulging themselves in the shadows. Almalexia passed them by silently, sticking to the shadows of the walls and the shelter of the less popular gardens. It was cold, heavily overcast and bitterly cold, but she hardly felt it over the hot wave of anger which welled inside her at those few clumsy remarks. The rumours regarding the true identity of her father were nothing new, of course-- she’d grown up hearing and promptly dismissing each one-- and yet to know that they still lingered, on the tongue of someone she’d call a friend no less, felt like a form of betrayal to her. It insulted her to know that some still suspected her of being an anonymous Nord's bastard. 

But it exposed a deeper wound in her-- the fact that more and more she was beginning to doubt her own identity, and the identity of the city she ruled. They were meant to be fighting the Nords... and yet her soldiers bore a Nordic name, half her citizens were Nords, even her memories and certain habits were occupied more by the men of Skyrim than they ever had been by her fellow mer. How was one meant to lead a cultural revolution when the identity of that culture was so muddied, so frayed? And now to hear that her people doubted her! She’d dueled with Chemua for them, suffered years of torment just for their sake, and this was her thanks, the tittered rumors that she was too Nordic for her position! Her anger reached a peak and she seized a branch from a nearby shrub, ripping it from the bush and relishing the sound of tearing wood. How dare they? She negotiated for Mournhold’s independence, spent night and day trying to keep them from Skyrim’s grasp, and they dared look down on her as traitor? She should punish them, somehow, show them the price of doubting her-- 

“Lady Almalexia?”

She whirled around. A few feet away stood Barfok, watching her tantrum with an unreadable expression.

“Barfok.” Almalexia replied stiffly, straightening up. “Why do you wander the grounds? It’s late.”

“I saw you leave the dinner. I can’t speak for elven customs, but where I come from it ent polite to let the host storm out all upset and not stop to ask what troubles her.” she stepped forwards. “Is it something we did? Bhag’s young and brash, you can’t take him too seriously--”

“Come no closer.” Almalexia cut her off. “Whatever you’re conspiring, give it up. You can’t use your little mind control trick on me!” She took her own step backwards, drawing herself upright, her heart racing. “Is that how you did it? You turned everyone in there against me, didn’t you! I should have you executed for this treachery. What lies have you spread?”

“Lies? Turned against you? What on Nirn--” and then the woman realized, her expression softened slightly, and she exhaled a soft laugh. “By the Gods, girl, calm yourself. I haven’t used my thu’um on anyone all night. I’ll admit that I did do a little prodding of that Duchess earlier-- but that’s it, I swear on my honour. I ent here to control you, or attack you. I just wanted to talk.”

This was panic, Almalexia realized dimly, her heart was racing in her throat and every muscle screamed at her to flee, or fight. She did neither, instead taking a long breath and squeezing her eyes shut, trying desperately to calm herself.

“There, there.” When she opened her eyes Barfok was standing much closer, her face gentle in the moonlight. “Are you alright, now?”

“I’m fine. Not that it’s any of your concern, outlander.”

“Right. Forgive my audacity, m’lady, but I worry for you more than I ought to and I simply wished to check.” she smiled thinly. “And don’t take this for some scheming. I’m not like you-- this is pure and honest concern. I voted for you at the moot, so the position you’re in now is my responsibility at least partially. Call me sentimental, but I can’t help but worry about you for that reason. Especially after what Chemua did.”

Almalexia froze at the name. “... How much do you know?”

“How much do I know? Gods, look at yourself! When I had Bhag walk into that room wearing his face you looked like you were facing a monster!”

“That was your doing?”

“Aye, and I’m sorry for it, but I had to be sure. Chemua’s my friend, my comrade, I’ve known him since we trained on Throat-Of-The-World together. So I know what sort of man he is, and I know what sort of woman you are, and I figure that you didn’t just sit back and let him run amok in your city cause he asked you nicely. What I know is that he must’ve done something to you, something _foul_ , and I know it’s turned you into a paranoid mess!”

“A paranoid-- you speak to the Queen! Watch your tongue, Nord, or I’ll have it ripped out!”

Barfok raised her hands in surrender. “Forgive me, m’lady. I don’t mean to pry, but I’ve seen enough to be strongly concerned. For your people if not for yourself.”

“ _You_ claim to be concerned for my people?” Almalexia laughed bitterly. “You, who wars against them, who tries to force them back into subjugation? You claim to be concerned for _me?!_ ”

“Enemy nations and invading armies aren’t the biggest enemy a ruler faces. Far more often it’s their own paranoia and insanity that becomes their ruin-- but you let yours run rampant under the pretense of ‘staying independent’! What good will independence be to your people when you have them executed out of fear they’re conspiring against you?”

“I would never! My advisors, Sotha Sil--”

“Even they will fall out of your trust if you continue down this path. Of all the opposition you face, this one will be your downfall, I’ve seen it before in my generals and I’ve heard it told in tales and now I’m watching it happen to you.” Barfok’s voice was passionate, raw, and she held out her arms as if pleading. “This is why I’m afraid for you, my Queen, and this is why I’m practically begging you: Make the Hold deal. You’re a Nord at heart-- Oh, don’t look at me like that, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. It just means you can’t abide by all this backstabbing and this betrayal, it’s driving you out of your mind. Come back to Skyrim, Lady Ayem. Come back, or you’ll end up sacrificing some great part of yourself, and it’ll cost you far more than just your life.”

Almalexia’s composure broke, she buried her face in her hands and dug the heels of her palms into her eyes. “Stop.” she said, shuddering. “I don’t… I will not be bullied into surrendering my city. I am a chimer, blessed by Boethiah himself. And you’re wrong about me.”

“Steady, lass.” Barfok placed a hand on her shoulder. “I know, I know, it’s always hard to come to terms with at first. But Skyrim awaits you with open arms, we’d welcome you as a comrade. You’re a fearsome warrior and a capable leader, every Nord in the country would respect that. And loyalty, honour, the simple luxury of talking to someone you knew beyond a doubt you could trust-- doesn’t that sound nice?”

The clouds, which had until now hung heavy and pregnant overhead, burst open, and icy rain began to fall. Almalexia remained silent, clutching her own face as frigid rain seeped through her too-thin dining robes, chilling her to the bone. In the distance there were shrieks and laughter as the amorous couple who’d hidden in the garden fled for shelter.

“Almalexia…” Barfok began.

“I don’t want Nordic loyalty.” the Queen replied. “Or honour. The chimer know nothing of these things, and neither do I.”

“But surely that’s a lie? Your soldiers are loyal to you, and house elves are loyal to their Houses. Surely you can’t claim that elves know nothing of loyalty?”

“You misunderstand. What you speak of isn’t loyalty-- it’s love.” Almalexia raised her face from her hands, regaining composure with each word spoken. “Of course we don’t betray what we love. My soldiers love Mournhold, Dres’ soldiers love their family and their House, my people love me. Your King Hoag Mer-Killer would ask me to bend my knee, but I do not love him, I could never love one who hates my people so. I will never surrender Mournhold to the Nords, for this reason; I will never again defile myself by pretending to love that which I hate.”  

The rain slowed to a drizzle; in the darkness Barfok’s face was invisible, but the grief in her voice was palatable when she finally spoke. “Do you love your people more than yourself, though? For if you don’t, by your own logic you’ll one day betray them… but by your answer to my offer I fear you’ve already shown where your priorities lie.”

“The offer I made you is generous, beneficial to both of us, and final. Take it, or we will remain at war, and I will show you no mercy.”

“Oh, I fear for everyone you’ll rule.”

The cold was beginning to affect her, and Almalexia turned away, wrapping her arms tight around herself and starting for the castle. She’d only made it a few feet when Barfok called out.

“If you won’t take my offer, than at least take a warning: Chemua was humiliated but he wasn’t defeated. He’s disappeared, aye, but I know him well. He’s biding his time, waiting for a proper war to break out. And when it does he’s going to return, with revenge on his tongue and an army at his back, striking straight for Mournhold with a wrath the likes of which you’ve never seen.”

Almalexia turned to face her and, though shivering and unarmed and soaked to the core, she grinned.

“I will eagerly await him.” 

 

***

 

Negotiations continued the next day, though they were made a great deal more interesting by two unexpected arrivals: Dres Khizumet’e and King Cruethys Ra’athim. It seemed that word of Ilinalta Ra’athim’s unsanctioned acceptance of a Hold deal had made its way back to her brother, and Cruethys had been so incensed that he’d opened a portal to Mournhold and charged through at the very break of day. Ilinalta, Sotha Sil and Almalexia had been taking breakfast in the Queen’s private chambers when the steward announced (or rather, warned them) that Cruethys was imminent, and moments later the furious King had charged into the chamber in a palatable rage.

Cruethys and Ilinalta remained in the chambers even now, Cruethys’ shouting audible through the door. Almalexia and Sotha Sil waited politely outside, listening to the passionate scolding with grim expressions.

“Are you going to tell him that she was mind-controlled?” Sotha Sil asked mildly.

Almalexia, still sore from last night’s remarks, shook her head. “Let him lose his city. He saw it fit to let us lose the Gorge, it’s only fitting to pay in kind.”

“Ruthless.” observed Dres Khizumet’e, who stood beside them-- he’d arrived shortly after Cruethys and had apparently taken an interest in the truce-meeting. “Don’t they call you merciful Mother Ayem?”

Almalexia smiled thinly at him. A moment later the door opened and Ilinalta dashed out, immediately falling into Almalexia’s arms with a sob. “Oh, Ayem, he’s severing ties with me! He threatens to revoke my name!”

“There, there, sera.” Almalexia cooed, embracing her. “Men are cruel, but you’re still a Duchess of Mournhold. Don’t weep, my dear.” She stroked the girl’s back, aware that Sotha Sil was watching her with an expression of mild horror, and Khizumet’e with one of approval.

“You can keep her.” Cruethys declared, exiting the chambers after her. “Ebonheart has some negotiations to do. Where’s that so-called ‘Jarl’? I want to have a word.”

“Negotiations are scheduled to begin shortly, in the Throne Room. I’ll meet you there, but I wish to confer with Dres Khizumet’e before it begins.”

Cruethys stormed off, and with a few gentle words Almalexia sent Ilinalta after him, along with her steward. Alone with only Sotha Sil and Khizumet’e, she took the opportunity to embrace the Dres Grandmaster warmly. “Khizu, how I’ve missed you. There’s much I need to tell you, come to my chambers. Seht, you too-- I need your advice now more than ever.”

They returned to the private chambers. “I heard news of Obsidian Gorge,” Khizumet’e began, “And apologize that I could not intervene. House Dres has been troubled by an unwelcome and unexpected enemy.”

“The Dwemer?” Sotha Sil asked, arching an eyebrow.

“The Dwemer? No, Houses Hlaalu and Redoran. Redoran has recently occupied Kragenmoor, while Hlaalu harries our holdings around Tear. What of the Dwemer?”

“They’ve reoccupied Mzithumz, to the north.” said Sotha Sil grimly. “Possibly other strongholds as well. Word is that they’ve also occupied Dunmeth pass and laid siege to Fort Virak.”

“To cut off the Nords from Skyrim, and drive them back down on the Chimer. Clever... and pesky for us.”

“Mournhold is in no way equipped to fend them off.” Almalexia admitted. “We have the soldiers, yes, but not the resources or the weapons. Calling a truce with the Nords is unfortunate but necessary-- we need their metal and their smiths. Will House Dres too make this truce?”

“As our Hortator does for her city, we shall follow in her footsteps. There have been light talks of new contracts-- Skyrim is hungry for slaves, methinks I smell an opportunity for gold here. And a truce would provide an adequate window to wrest Kragenmoor from Redoran’s grip.

“Clan Ra’athim plans to lay claim to Kragenmoor themselves. You may have to contend with them.”

“House Dres is not intimidated by a few sour nobles.” Khizumet’e took her arm, smiling. “Come, m’lady, let us parly.”

They were the last of the councilors to arrive at the Throne Room, it seemed, for when they did arrive they found that the Nords were already seated at one side of the table, with the Ra’athim siblings at the other. Whatever heated bickering had been taking place ceased the moment Almalexia took her spot at the head of the table with Sotha Sil by her side, and a heavy silence descended momentarily as the Queen surveyed each attendant in turn.

“Almalexia!" Barfok announced after a moment. “You're just in time. Now, we all know that Lady Ayem has made it clear she will settle only for Mournhold’s establishment as an independent state. I’ve received word from the High King on this offer, and he-- well, I shant repeat it precisely, it was somewhat rude, but he’s willing to accept the offer, provided you can indeed get the Dwarves out of Dunmeth Pass. You can’t have Necrom, but we’ll give you every mine within fifty miles as compensation, is that satisfactory?”

“ _Gol hah!_ ” Almalexia declared. “Oh, pardon my Nordic-- A fine arrangement! Valyn will have the detachment sent to Blacklight at once.”

“Ebonheart, too, demands independence.” declared Cruethys hotly. “We have not come so far just to bow our heads now! Grant us full independence, repay what you owe us in damages, and keep every Nord out of my city!”

“I’m afraid Ebonheart is a little more crucial.” said Barfok, unsmiling. “Hoaga wants his city back, he ent compromising on this one.”

“ _His_ city? Ebonheart belongs to the Ra’athim! We will not bow, and--”

Dres Khizumet’e raised his hand, and held it aloft until eyes were upon him. Only when he had the attention of even furious Cruethys did he announce, quite simply: “House Dres will accept a Hold arrangement, on the condition that I am declared Jarl of Ebonheart and given full reign of the city.”

Cruethys cursed and took a step towards Khizumet’e, and at the same moment Ilinalted cried out “No!” and leapt to her feet, seizing her brother by the arm. “Oh, brother, don’t do this, just accept the Hold arrangement! You’re going to tear our city apart! Please, brother, you’ll see Ebonheart burning!”

“I have come too far to bow to Skyrim now! If you are a true Ra'athim you will stand with me on this.”

“I cannot, I will not! I can’t condone a war with House Dres, I beg of you, Cruethys, I cannot condone the slaughter you are going to subject our people to.”

Cruethys wrenched his arm from her, his face darkening with hatred. “Then as the Master of House Mora, I expel you from our House, and strip you of the name Ra’athim!”

Ilinalta let out a sob of horror and staggered back. Almalexia immediately leapt to catch her, taking her into an embrace and murmuring reassurance as her brother marched proudly out of the room.

A stunned silence descended on those remaining, punctuated only by Ilinalta’s sobs. Bhag’s eyebrow was raised, Barfok looked mildly surprised, and Hlaalu Llervan was wide-eyed to the point of looking comical. Dres Khizumet’e, however, seemed not the least bit perturbed that war had just been declared on his House: he walked over to Ilinalta, whose face was buried in Almalexia’s shoulder, and gently squeezed her arm. “You’re very brave, m’lady. House Dres honours the actions you’ve taken on behalf of your people.”

“You will forgive me if Mournhold takes no part in the coming war.” Almalexia told him, annoyed. “We negotiate here to reach peace, not get ourselves involved in the petty squabbles of other cities.”

“Understandable and acceptable. Forgive me for the drama.”

“Well, then.” Barfok interrupted, getting to her feet. “Khizumet’e, isn’t it? I know you, Chemua told me about you. I must say that you’re shrewd as promised. At any rate, I’m glad to make your acquaintance, and Narsis-hold is prepared to offer whatever you need to get your city for us.”

“Thank you, Jarl, I’ve heard about you likewise from he.”

“Will you accompany Bhag and I back to Narsis? We have some planning to do, it seems-- and depending on how things go, we might have some words about Kragenmoor…”

“Right!” Bhag declared, also standing. “Are we done, then? About bloody time! Get over here, Dres-elf, let’s talk about my city, and how we’re going to show up those other, snobbier elves!”

Khizumet’e offered Almalexia a final apologetic smile before turning and walking over to Bhag. Barfok, too, smiled, turning her attention to Almalexia,though there was a hint of sadness to the expression, or perhaps worry. “I suppose this concludes our meeting?”

“I suppose it does.” Almalexia agreed.

“Very well. Mournhold won’t bother Skyrim and Skyrim won’t bother Mournhold. It’s as best we can hope for… though I still fret for you.”

Bhag and Khizumet’e headed for the door, and the moment they’d left the room Barfok’s smile faded. “A word of warning, my lady.” she said, suddenly somber. “If ever your paranoia will serve you, it’s with this one. Chemua’s hiding somewhere in Morrowind, waiting out Hoag’s wrath, and there were only so many people on such good terms with him they’d go to that sort of trouble.”

A cold wave washed over the Queen. “You don’t imply--”

“I imply nothing.” Barfok bowed deeply. “Until next we meet, and may that time be one of peace. Farewell, Almalexia, and watch your back.” With that the Nord turned and followed the rest of her court, leaving a heavy silence in her wake.

“What did she mean?” Ilinalta mumbled.

Almalexia simply shook her head. “She meant nothing. Go clean yourself up, sera. I’ll meet you in your chambers shortly, but I need to speak with Sil first.”

Ilinalta, still shaking with silent grief, nodded and withdrew from her arms. “Thank you, my Lady.” Arms drawn around herself, the Duchess too left the room, and Almalexia finally turned her attention to her counselor. Sotha Sil had watched the scene go down without reaction, and now his eyes were downcast, distant in the way he always looked when he was pondering something. She walked over to stand beside him and touched him on the shoulder.

“This changes things.” Sotha Sil observed.

“I wasn’t expecting Ebonheart to go to war with itself.” she confessed in reply. “Truthfully I can’t begin to know what I should think about this. Tell me, my friend-- what do you think?”

He considered the question for a long moment. “I think that we need to be wary of House Dres. It would be best to stay out of the Ebonheart war, it wouldn't be wise to make an enemy of either House Dres or the Ra'athim, and there's no sense fighting amongst ourselves while we face greater threats. Instead we should take advantage of this respite, and build our strength while we can. We have crops. We have mines. We have soldiers, and the resources to make weapons. This truce won’t last forever, and we’re in the position to make ourselves ready for the moment war breaks out again. In the meantime let us nourish our people and prepare them for what comes.”

Abruptly Almalexia laughed, and this reaction seemed to catch him off guard, for he turned to her with a blush forming on his cheeks. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” she said, grinning. “I just remembered-- do you recall the day before the moot that made queen? You were scolding me for my reckless actions, and you scolded me for believing that there was going to be a war between the Nords and the chimer, because Azura had once told you that a hortator would come. And now you sit here counseling me, a hortator, on how best to prepare for the great war!”

Sotha Sil, though still seemingly perplexed, returned the smile. “It’s strange, isn’t it? If you’d have told me it would be like this then I’d have never believed you.”

“Azura _did_ tell you, and you didn’t believe her. Tell me, though, do you regret it? You must miss your family-- do you regret the way this turned out?”

“In all honesty? I’m thankful. For so long I resented being sent away from Ald Sotha, but I’m beginning to consider it a blessing. My House needs me, no doubt-- but you, and all of Morrowind, need me more here. And for all I love my House, I also love Morrowind as if I'd love my family, and you.”

“Morrowind, our people... it's all for them, isn't it? They are our family, and our duties are to them. We cannot fail them.”

Light shone through the window, indicating that the sun had finally risen over Mournhold’s towering walls. Beyond sat the city, clean and gleaming in the fresh winter light, and far beyond that the peak of Red Mountain stood dark against a pale blue sky. The city would already be lively, as merchants and farmers and soldiers all went about their business, each in the shadow of the castle and with the simple faith that their Queen was watching over them. And she was, Almalexia knew that with certainty now-- if she lost all else, she would always have the people of Morrowind, all she did was for them. They were her children, her citizens, and more strongly than she’d ever felt anything, she loved them.

“But enough talk.” Almalexia declared, taking her friend’s hand. “We have a city to prepare.”

 

***

 

“... So the last of the spies have been interrogated, and it seems conclusive: they’re being sent by the Chimeri Queen Almalexia of Mourning-Hold.”

Bthuand Mzahnch, ruling Tonal Architect of Mzithumz and a dwemer of no small renowned, nodded his head. “Efficient as always. Do you have the information?”

“Three spies in total were captured and interrogated.” relayed the torture-master, with all the efficiency of an automoton. “The first: male, chimer, approximately 30 years of age. Fluent in Dwemeris and yielded six stanzas of information regarding Almalexia and her servants. The second: female, chimer, approximately 25 years of age. Of the same blood of the male, yielded three stanzas of information, though she does not know Dwemeris as well. And the third…”

The torture-master trailed off, and Bthuand Mzahnch cocked his head. “Is there a problem?”

“The third spy was… an anomaly.” confessed the torture-master. “It’s a chimer, perhaps fifteen years of age. It yielded only one stanza of information, though what it yielded was… strange indeed.”

“What of its sex?”

“It bore neither the traits of a chimeri male or a chimeri female, but a combination of the two, something I’ve never seen in their race. More troubling still, it shows some fluency in Dwemeris, though the dialect it uses is peculiar and unlike anything I’ve heard before.”

“You aren’t suggesting it could be a half-breed?”

“I know not what I suggest, Tonal Architect. This one eludes me.”

“Bring me to it.” Bthuand ordered.

The torture-master bowed and started off down a hall, through dim and narrow corridors of cold brass that plunged ever-deeper into the earth. “It was visited upon by a past-projection hologram during its interrogation.” continued the torture-master. “This hologram dispelled in the presence of the Paradox, but we were unable to retrieve any more notes of information from the subject after the visitation. The subject fell into a deep sleep immediately afterwards. What could the meaning be, Tonal Architect?”

“The chimer often conjure projections of their ancestors in times of trouble. The meaning may be trifling; it may be everything. I will have to look upon this subject myself to discern further.”

They passed through a heavy door, leading into a wide and low-ceiling roomed lined with instruments of torture. Against one wall sat several cages, most occupied by motionless forms. The torture-master lead Bthuand to one cage in particular and he approached it with great curiosity; it was empty but for a single small body that lay crumpled on the floor, and Bthuand bent over to take a closer look at the broken little shape. It seemed to be nothing spectacular, he noted: a small, skinny chimer, still in the awkward stages of adolescence, it lay naked and curled up in a tight ball on the floor of its cage. Its face was hidden by a mess of bone-white hair and its hands were clasped above its head, its long fingers curled into strange shapes, as if it were casting a ward. Bthuand studied it for several moments and detected no sign of movement in its malnourished form.

“Interesting, how interesting.” mused the Tonal Architect. “Does it live?”

“It did last I checked.”

“Sera.” Bthuand called. There was no sign of motion, so he sung out again, more forcefully this time: “Rise, boy.”

A small tremble, and then the form of the chimer slowly uncurled. It sat up, moving slowly and stiffly, seemingly reluctant to have been woken from its slumber. It stifled a yawn, pushed its hair from its eyes, and blinked up-- it had big eyes, long-lashed and permanently wide, though there was something cool in the expression, even derisive. It was the look of someone who knew more than those around him, Bthuand thought, often seen in Tonal Architects of higher ranks, but in Logic’s name what could this child know that he didn’t?

“Do you understand Dwemeris?” asked Bthuand in his native tongue.

Slowly, the prisoner nodded, without breaking its stare.

“You can understand me completely?”

Another slow nod, with that unwavering persistent gaze.

“Where do you come from?”

The mer shrunk back against its cage, pulling its legs to its chest defensively. Bthuand sighed and knelt before the cage, holding out a hand as a gesture of peace. “I’m not going to interrogate you.” he promised. “I am a Tonal Architect, a seeker of truth. I am here because I am interested in learning your truth. My tactics are not physical, do not fear me.”

The mer, again, said nothing, but its eyes were on Bthuand and he knew that it could understand. He softened his voice and decided to ask a simpler question: “What is your name?”

To this, the chimer finally replied, speaking with a soft and solemn certainty that left the Architect inexplicably unnerved.

“Vel,” ze said. “My name is Vel.”

 

* * *

 

_Being blind the netchiman's wife wandered into a cave on her way to the domains of House Indoril. It so happened that this cave was a Dwemeri stronghold. The Dwemer spied the egg and captured the netchiman's wife. They bound her head to foot and brought her deep within the earth._

_She heard one say:_

    _'Go and make a simulacrum of her and place it back on the surface, for she has something akin to what we have an so the Velothi will covet it and notice if she is too long away.'_

_In the darkness, the netchiman's wife felt great knives try to cut her open. When the knives did not work, the Dwemer used solid sounds. When those did not work, great heat was brought to bear. Nothing was of any use and egg of Vivec remained safe within her._

_..._

_Vivec felt that his mother was afraid, and so consoled her._

    _'The fire is mine: let it consume thee,_
    _And make a secret door_
    _At the altar of Padhome_
    _In the House of Boet-hi-Ah_
    _Where we become safe_
    _And looked after.'_

_This old prayer made the netchiman's wife smile and begin such a deep sleep that when Dwemeri atronachs returned with cornered spheres and cut her apart she did not awake and died peacefully._

  
  



	7. VI

_1E413, Frostfall_

_Almost two years of peace._

_Vivec was removed from her womb and placed within a magical glass for further study. To confound his captors, he channeled his essence into love, an emotion the Dwemer knew nothing about._

_The egg said:_

 

* * *

 

 

“As we grow closer to Masser’s eclipse of Secunda, we observe profound change in the subtle mechanics of the world. The cat-men of the south await the birth of their king; we Dwemer find our minds cleared and our eyes opened, with meaning becoming more apparent to seeking eyes; with a correctly formatted oculosphere, the particularly observant scholar may even be able to briefly gleam the whirling-mechanisms embedded within the fabric of creation.  Why is this so? What properties of the lunar create such profound ripples in the tangible? Speak your answer.”

Vehk considered the question carefully. “Well…”

“Yes?”

“I’unno.”

“You don’t know.” Bthuand corrected hir in curt Dwemeris. “Young Vel, do you mean to tell me that after an hour’s study you have not the first note as to why the moons affect us so?”

Vehk shrugged and pulled a face. In truth ze wasn’t simply being impertinent; ze genuinely didn’t know what the moons had to do with anything, nor did ze care to learn it. Bthuand wasn’t really as intent on teaching hir things as he pretended to be, ze knew-- attempting to teach the Chimer something of Dwemeri astrophysics was simply the Architect’s pet experiment, an idle investigation into what extent of the Truth could be comprehended by a feeble surfacer’s mind.

And yet it was somewhat amusing to mess with hir captor, and so ze made an exaggerated show of thought-- ze wrinkled hir nose, closed hir eyes, and swayed from side to side as if in deep meditation, before finally announcing hir theory: “Secunda is singing.”

“Singing?”

“Yes! Secunda is always singing, putting forth a sound like a blight that washes over Nirn. This song muddles our minds, it influences the catpeople too. So when Masser slips in front of him, his song is muffled-- our thoughts become clearer, our vision sharpens, and a big cat is born that’s better than the little ones. There’s your answer, Tonal Architect. Is it True?”

“Closer to poetry than theory,” remarked Bthuand, “But closer to Truth than you think. I’ll allow it.”  

“ _Allow_ it!” Vehk exclaimed in mock-outrage. “And offer no Reason as to why I’m wrong? Tell me what’s un-True about my theory! You cannot, because it is Truth of the purest sort. You stuffy Dwemer can’t admit that the moons are singing. Blind! Give me your Architect’s robes. I’m wiser than you, I deserve them more. Give them to me.”

Bthuand, who was a Dwemer of tradition and thus completely alien to the notion of humour, simply turned away with utter disinterest. “Insolent, insolent.” he tutted. “How fickle and emotional you Chimer are. How swift to feel emotions. What is this one-- anger?”

Vehk simply groaned and fell back, lying on the floor and staring sullenly at the ceiling. Bthuand was the presidingTonal Architect of Mzithumz, and thus his quarters were nothing short of a marvel. Glass lamps and suspended mirrors reflected sharp beams of light onto various desks and work-tables, lending the brass-fixtured room a dazzling copper gleam; above their head hung a perfect replica of the skies of Nirn, rendered in tiny glowing jewels that stretched across the domed roof of the study. Vehk’s gaze fell on the two spherical shapes that moved slowly around the roof in a perfect mirror of their astral counterparts. Long ago someone had told hir that they were two halves of a deity’s corpse-- though Dwemer-science left a foul taste in hir mouth, ze contemplated whether that had anything to do with the supposed influence they had on mortals. “The moons are laughing at us.” ze mumbled to hirself.

“Metaphorically speaking.” Bthuand conceded. Vehk propped hirself up on hir elbows, turning hir attention to the architect-- he had returned to one of his desks and was hunched over, analyzing carefully a range of inexplicable objects designed to monitor the heavens. At least, he said that they were designed for monitoring the heavens, their true purpose could have been anything. Vehk made a policy of not trusting the Dwemer, even if ze did live among them; they didn’t trust hir either, after all, forcing hir to remain locked in Bthuand’s glass study as one of his exotic surface curios. Ze could speak their language, knew their customs, and had been through enough torture to convince anyone that ze wasn’t a spy-- and yet the deep-elves wouldn’t even let hir get a single glimpse of the stronghold beyond the study. Ze found such confinement both frustrating and unbearably tedious, and lately hir disquiet had grown only more keen, sharpened by a notion that ze’d come to know as dissatisfaction with hir own life. Ze was approaching adulthood and by all rights ze should have been changing things, creating and imagining and at least procuring something to show for hir days. Even as a whore ze’d had gold and commendations to boast of; as a simple object of curiosity ze had nothing, was permitted to do nothing, and was forced to waste away hir days in perfect stasis. It was hellishly boring.

Restlessness seized hir and ze hopped to hir feet, walking over to the Architect with hir hands clasped behind hir back. “What’re those?”

“Beyond your comprehension, young Vel.”

“Come on. Tell.”

“Hm.” Bthuand sat back, gesturing to his tools. “This is an oculosphere, which I’m attuning to the under-wheels in preparation for the eclipse.”

“And that?”

“A tuning fork.”

“How about that?”

“A normalizing wand, designed to neutralize vibrations which ring through the Earth Bones.”

“And that?”

“A bowl of dissatisfactory nutrient gruel.” Bthuand sounded displeased, a rare slip of emotion. “To be returned to the Chief Provisioner with orders for immediate rectification. As a matter of fact, I sent for a courier hours ago, and one’s yet to arrive. Highly unacceptable! What is becoming of Mzithumz, that I can’t even return a bowl of failed gruel without such inefficiency?”

An idea popped into Vehk’s head and slipped past hir lips before ze could stop it. “Can I bring it to them?”

“Pardon?”

Bthuand seemed comically bemused by this idea, but Vehk pressed on before the opportunity could slip past hir. “It’s just a courier job. I could carry the gruel down, give them your complaints and come back within an hour. Far more efficient than waiting. Or would you let simple rules and regulations make you act inefficiently?”

The Architect pursed his lips and nodded. “You do raise a point... fine. Take my server’s robes and my sigil, along with this note of complaint. Go straight back there and back, and cause no trouble.”

Vehk’s heart leapt. “Oh, sera!” ze exclaimed, then hastily switched back to Dwemeris. “I won’t disappoint! I will be as automatic as the most Dwemeri of Dwemer. Like an automaton, a perfect spider, I won’t speak a single word, I will be perfectly efficient! Thank you!”

“Chimeri enthusiasm. How quaint.” But Vehk fancied that the Architect was trying to hide a smile.

Twenty minutes later Vehk stepped out of the Architect’s quarters for the first time since ze’d come to Mzithumz. Ze must’ve looked ridiculous-- the server’s robes were outrageously ornate, too big for hir, and so heavy that hir shoulders slumped and hir gate became awkward under the weight of so much embroidered metal. Around hir neck ze wore a sigil-plaque, engraved with the crests of a Tonal Architect and with the Mzanch family crest on one side, and on the other, a few curt words indicating that ze was on official business and should not be waylaid. Bthuand had even had the courtesy to straighten hir hair, though such a gesture was made futile by the fact that both hir hair and skin were lighter than even the fairest dwarf’s and marked hir as a foreigner despite all the livery. Nonetheless, ze marched with hir head held high, holding the container of defective gruel and the note of complaint before hir as proudly as if ze were carrying a sacred relic.

The false bravado lasted no longer than it took for hir to step into one of the main halls. A well-organized Dwemer stronghold was as efficient as one of their machines, with every dwarf working in uncanny synchronization to complete the tasks assigned to them. If one had to pass through a chamber that wasn’t its own station, it kept flawlessly to the roads and lanes which laced each busy room, stepping around its occupants with clockwork precision every time their paths crossed. Vehk, a Chimer and a foreigner, didn’t have the benefit of the Dwemeri hivemind to guide hir steps, which made hir passage significantly more difficult. The first chamber between the provisioning hall and the Architect’s quarters was also one of the busiest: an experimental spider-forge, where the more talented engineers darted to and fro in their busy quest to create new and revolutionary forms of spider-automaton designed by the head Architects. Vehk had barely made it three steps in when ze nearly collided with an engineer who’d been hurrying from one side of the forge to the other. “Watch it--” the dwarf began, only to trail off in shock as he realized what he’d almost collided with. Vehk ducked hir head and hurried on, jumping and weaving about the roads in elaborate patterns to avoid running into any other of the busy deep-elves.

The next chamber was far less busy-- a respite-hall, filled with those dwarves pausing their shifts to supply their bodies with necessary rest and nourishment. The air felt heavy, hot and thick with the smell of sweat and nutrient-gruel; the atmosphere, however, was more relaxed than those of the work-chambers, and the Dwemer within spoke freely of the day’s latest events. Vehk breathed a sigh of relief, pulled hir arms to hir sides, and slipped easily through the throng. Ze couldn’t resist slowing down slightly, listening in on the idle conversations around hir. How long had it been since ze’d last been in a casual environment, free from Bthuand’s particularities and rigorous adherence to rules? How long since ze’d been privy to the easy chatter of friends discussing the day’s events? Too long, it felt, and though ze was undeniably an outsider ze savored deeply the happy discussion around hir, as if it were hir first breath of surface-air in years.

“Och, get out of the road and sit down.” An irritated dwarf in Provisioner’s robes snapped at Vehk. “Or no food. You do… wait. You’re no Dwemer.”

“Yes I am.” Vehk replied sarcastically. “Don’t you see my golden beard?”

“Lies and folly. You’re a Chimer, aren’t you!” The Provisioner scoffed. “What’s a Chimer doing in Mzithumz? Have your precious Daedra ordered you to come and learn what it’s like to think for yourself?”

“I think for myself all the time.”

“Lies! Surface elves are slaves to the whims of Daedra. No better than animals, though animals have the decency to be autonomous. Your kind only serves those fickle spirits, like livestock. Which one do you favor, that lick-spittle coward Mephala? Weak and foolish.”

Common sense told Vehk that ze should have simply moved on, but something in this smug dwarf irritated hir to the point where ze couldn’t resist rising to the challenge. Unfortunately for him, Vehk knew more of their kind than they of hirs, and ze didn’t need a moment before deciding on hir method of retaliation. “Well, fine, you aren’t wrong, not entirely. But... I’m not Mephala’s slave. I’m her _lover_.”

That certainly got the attention of the dwarf, for his eyebrows arched high in his surprise. “What?”

“You heard me.” Vehk dipped hir voice, the guttural dwarf-tongue sounding husky and sensual in hir foreigner’s accent. Ze pushed hir shoulders back and cocked hir hips forwards, deliberately sidling towards the Provisioner until ze was uncomfortably close. “I’m Mephala’s lover. I’ve known her… intimately. You know what I speak of, don’t you, deep-elf?”

“No I don’t. And you’re lying. That’s impossible.”

“No, it’s not. There’s not a word for it in your language, but you know what I speak of, don’t you? That act of creation sans the creating. An exchanging of spears and a subsequent licking of said spears. A touching of feet, of tongues, and of, ah… again, there’s no word for such parts in your language.”

“This sort of thing has no place here.” the dwarf said quickly, glancing around. His face was burning bright red, his eyes wide-- was that sweat beading on the side of his face?

“But it lingers, doesn’t it?” Vehk pressed. “You feel it, I can tell. You have bodies, surely you must know what I speak of. Why are there no Dwemer women? Have you ever known one? And who produces the new Dwemer? I’ve never seen a Dwemer child. What do you have between your legs? A spear or a sanctuary?”

“I don’t-- that is to say, I shan’t--”

“Both? Me too. Both is good, both is fun, Mephala too had both. What do you do with them? Mephala had a special method where she’d use her mouth and her fingers and apply them just so… but that’s forbidden to your kind, isn’t it? And you say we’re the slaves!”

“Physical contact is a waste of time and energy, only for beasts and animals! You’re no better than an animal!”

“Then I’m proud to be an animal, because we animals do have so much fun! While you were ladeling gruel out for the engineers I was lying in a bed of cobwebs, bare and entangled with the Webspinner herself. While you sought enlightenment in your serving-duties I found ecstasy in a smartly placed mouth, right on my--”

“Silence! This is pointless! You debauched devil!”

“Pointless!” Vehk scoffed. “See, I think you Dwemer are the real Blind ones. Your Truth isn’t _the_ truth, and in fact it’s a boring truth, I hate it. Before you ask, hatred is a feeling, it means I find something repulsive to my core. I find your notion of pointlessness to be disgusting.”

“You’re unenlightened, though.” said the Provisioner, flustered. “You’re just Chimer filth. Ignorant!”

“Am I?” Vehk sidled even closer, locking eyes with the Provisioner and twisting hir lips into a mocking smile. “Tell me, _sera_ , is serving gruel really so enlightening? How much divine knowledge can you gain from feeding these lowly engineers? Bthuand sent me to return this substandard meal you served him, in fact, so if you find any meaning in your work you don’t deserve it! And yet you call me unenlightened-- I’ve been useless, the most useless member of society there could be, and yet I know what it is to be proud and satisfied, for I’ve known… and I share with you a filthy word here, one your superiors would whip you for even knowing… I’ve known _love_.”

“You’ve already told me of your filthy exploits, you animal--”

“No, no, not that love. Love. Affection. That thing that makes your heart beat rapidly and fills your mind with thoughts of another. It’s a strange, wonderful emotion, the best discovery of the Chimer and the reason we’re so much better than you. Tell me, have you ever felt as if you ruled the world? As if you were about to take flight? Have you ever wanted to die for someone, and wanted to die because you couldn’t have someone? I have and it was wretched-- wonderful and wretched both! Paradoxes are dangerous according to your Architects, and love is the most dangerous paradox at all. Love convinces you there’s a reason to live when all of life is telling you to die. Love makes you feel wanted, needed, beautiful. Love--  it’s the most amazing thing in the world, and the only reason the Architects forbid it is because they know you’d never work so hard if you could only know what it was to love!”

“Is that so?”

Vehk whirled on hir heels and found hirself facing a scowling Dwemer, obviously of high rank by the volume of gold braided into his beard. Hir heart plummeted.

“Chief Provisioner!” the blushing Provisioner cried out. “This surface scum is spreading blasphemies! Hand it over to the torture-master, get it out of here, it’s a spy!”

“I’m no spy!” Vehk replied quickly. “I’m running an errand for Bthuand, the Tonal Architect, he-- he said his gruel was defective and asked me to return it. Here’s the note, here’s his sigil, don’t harm me!”

The Chief Provisioner took both from Vehk, and examined the note thoroughly, taking his time in reading it and bearing a deep scowl all the while. “Too high a fungal content.” he finally muttered. “How one so wise can be so ignorant as to not recognize a perfectly proportioned gruel is beyond me… very well, then. Apprentice, fetch a new serving of gruel for the Esteemed Tonal Architect, now.”

The flustered dwarf behind hir rushed off, and the Chief Provisioner turned his stern gaze to Vehk. “And you. Bthuand’s or no, your kind is worthless to me. I was merciful. Others will be less so. Speak another untoward word again and you will re-acquaint yourself with the torture-master before the Chief Tonal Architect can interrupt. Do you understand?”

Vehk bowed deeply, unable to choke out even a ‘yes’. The Apprentice returned a moment later, and Vehk seized the steaming hot container from his hands before turning and making hir way, as quickly as ze could, back for the relative safety of Bthuand’s quarters.

The Tonal Architect was deep in study when ze returned, and paid no attention as Vehk deposited the fresh gruel on his desk. Nor did he take note as ze struggled out of the heavy robes and immediately retreated to hir bed, hugging hirself to try and still the shaking. “Eventful trip?” was the only acknowledgement he gave of hir return, spoken without looking up from his tools.

“You could say that.” Vehk mumbled in reply. Bthuand didn’t answer, and ze fell back onto hir bed, clenching hir eyes against the memories ze’d stirred, and the deep sense of foreboding which had taken root in hir gut.

The eclipse of the moons was a herald of change. Ze’d lived long enough to know that change was never good.

 

***

 

The slow rhythmic ticking of an astronomical clock; the gentle whirr of a telescope as it spun on its mount; the occasional rustle of maps and charts, marked once or twice by the crisp scratch of a quill on paper. But for these small and unobtrusive noises Sotha Sil’s study was silent and still. It was two in the morning and the night beyond was silent. This suited Sotha Sil perfectly, for he was deep in his studies, and even the slightest disturbance had the potential to take him from the brink of an amazing discover, exiling him to the distracted ruin of a scholar wrenched from his thoughts a moment too soon. The world of his mind was machine-like and impossibly intricate, a world of balances and counter-balances, carefully positioned cogs and springs that worked in a perfectly calculated tandem, capable of yielding a sudden insight or an extraordinary implication if the thinker could find a way to operate the delicate mechanisms of his own thoughts just so. Sotha Sil had been on the brink of one such insight for days, balancing precariously somewhere between metaphysics, astronomy, theology and geology, suspended on the tightrope strung between two monolithic concepts which might bend and yield their secrets, if one could only tease from them the correct evidence and the appropriate observations.

And now this evidence was within reach. Beside him an astrolabe tilted slightly on its axis, the crystal suspended within it humming in response to some imperceptible change of climate. He pulled away from his telescope, shifting his attention from the skies above to the instrument beside. A careful measure of its tilt, a quick observation of the way the crystal now vibrated within its gyroscopic mount, and he carefully adjusted his telescope accordingly, changing the focus of the lens so that it would refract light in a slightly different way. A pocket-watch sitting beside him read 2:36; two minutes then, he surmised, he had two minutes to prepare for the critical observation. Beyond the window Masser slid ever-closer to its brother-moon. Sotha Sil squinted, trying to observe the aura between them with his naked eye, to no avail.

The night was still and unnaturally silent. The whole world perched on the cusp of revelation.

A soft _click_ , a whirr as the gyroscope beside him flipped in response to the crystal's amplified hum. His clock read 2:38; with bated breath he bowed his head and affixed his eye to the eyepiece of his telescope.

The whole of the universe was laid bare before him. Between Masser and Secunda a thick miasma of energy had formed and now became visible through the tinted lenses of the telescope, growing ever clearer as the two moons came closer to their eclipse. For the past week this aura had been little more than a meaningless mist; now, at the critical moment, it finally became clear, and Sotha Sil gasped softly as the abstractions within it turned solid and visible.

They were cogs: to his eyes it looked as if countless cogs were being reflected in the pearlescent fog. Enormous beyond comprehension, more complex than any mortal hands could ever craft-- perhaps they weren't even three-dimensional, they spun in ways that Sotha Sil's mortal mind couldn't begin to fathom. Their teeth interlocked with... something, a construct which couldn't be identified or even seen, but which existed nonetheless, though not in a way normal clockwork was able to exist. Was it time? Events? Hypotheses formed in Sotha Sil's mind and melted away immediately. He stood and slightly adjusted the lens, trying to bring clarity to whatever made those monumental gears spin in their elusive, aetheric way.  The truth was within grasp--

A pair of cold hands enclosed around his neck. "What are you looking at?" Almalexia asked mildly.

She probably hadn't been intending to touch him so hard. No matter what she'd intended, what happened was that her unexpected grasp caused his head to bounce forwards, colliding soundly with the telescope. The delicate instrument was knocked neatly off its spinning axis; its carefully calibrated lenses, held to its tip with an improvised framework of levitation spells and twine, separated from the apparatus and floated gracefully out of the window. Without thinking Sotha Sil let out a cry and scrambled after them, actually managing to get halfway out of the tower before Almalexia dragged him back inside. She had the advantage of weight and strength, and he found himself held aloft above his desk, staring with mute despair as months of invention floated slowly up and away, gliding towards the moons they'd been meant to survey.

"... I'm so, so sorry." Almalexia began.

"Let me go." Sotha Sil ordered her. She obeyed and he sunk into his chair, hiding his face in a single hand. "You... you fool. You absolute fool. Have you any idea..."

"Watch how you speak of the Queen, mage. And have _you_ any idea how long you've been up here? I count three days, at least. My Shouts have been taking wagers on whether you've dropped dead! Here, I brought you some dinner. I was informed that you've told them to stop bringing it up. Eat, I order it."

She handed him a basket of scrib-meat and hackle-lo, and he took it, setting it immediately aside. "Quiet. What I’m working on is more important than you can fathom, and you’ve just-- you’ve ruined it, it’s going to take days to recalibrate everything! Almalexia, if you weren’t my dear friend, I would--"

He caught the anger in his voice and noticed that she’d gone tense. His senses returned to him and he took in a deep breath, turning back to the ruins of his work on his desk.

“... What are you working on, then?” Almalexia asked cautiously.

"You wouldn't understand it. It's incredibly complex."

"So make me understand. I want to know why I should allow you to keep indulging your Dwemer contraband habit. Or why I should let you hole yourself away up here for weeks, while you’re at it.”

He grimaced, nibbling at a hackle-lo leaf. Beside him the crystal went suddenly quiet in its gyroscope, indicating that the critical moment of the night had passed, and he sighed deeply.

"... Sil?"

"In simple terms," he informed her, "It's an investigation into how the Earthbones are shaped."

"How they're shaped? They aren't literal bones."

"No, of course not, but they are... well, there's much conjecture on what they are. Any serious scholar knows that they’re a set of rules. Their true nature, what they are and how they came to be, is elusive.” he stood, crossing his workspace to retrieve a book that had been left open on a desk. “Nord scholars-- yes, that’s an oxymoron, I’m aware-- but Nord scholars claim that this is how the thu’um works, the voice of thu’um-wielders is so mighty that even the Earthbones must bow and obey their will. It sounds like pure myth, but according to this book the Dwemer wield a similar power. Aural architecture, it’s called, the principle of using sound to manipulate reality around them--”

“Sil,” she interrupted, reading the book over his shoulder. “‘Man door centurion spider door?”

“The translation is, ah… lacking. I concede that. But Dwemeris bears enough similarities to Dreughic that, with knowledge of the latter, it’s not difficult to work out what this translations’ nonsensical grammar was originally meant to say.”

“I… right.” frowning in a way that betrayed her skepticism, Almalexia leaned back against the wall and crossed her arms. “Alright, so the Nords Shout and the Earthbones obey for some reason. Dwemer do the same thing. What of it?”

“What of it? Almalexia, do you know what this implies?” Sotha Sil couldn’t prevent his voice from rising slightly-- his irritation with her didn’t run so deep that he’d resist the excitement of his discoveries for it. “It suggests that the very fabric of reality can be manipulated by _sound_. I endeavor to find out why. Why sound?”

“You said that they obey the thu’um, perhaps they’re sentient and can be reasoned with.”

“You’re joking, but the truth is that you could be right. A popular theory from Summurset is that the Earthbones are remnants of the spirits who created Mundus. Just as Lorkhan-- or Shor, you’d know him as Shor-- just as that spirit’s essence forms a component of creation, hence the great influence of the moons on reality, the Earthbones are other spirits who sacrificed their essence to give Mundus a solid form. I’ve always hypothesized that there’s an inextricable link between sound and reality itself, possibly characterized by vibrations, and yet to figure out where these spirits come into play, it’s rather…”

He’d lost her attention. Almalexia had her back turned to him and stood bowed over the table, picking over his apparatus with vague amusement. Her attention came to rest at the gyroscope and she frowned. “What’s this?”

“An amplifying mechanism for that crystal. You may recognize it-- it’s from the amulet I gave you back during our parly with Barfok. As I said, the Dwemer appear to be doing research into the Earthbones, too. This crystal vibrates when the Earthbones are manipulated, so I constructed this gyroscope to amplify the effect. What do you think?”

“I think it’s… it looks interesting.” brow creased with confusion, she reached out to touch the delicate contraption, and he instinctively swatted her hand away, causing her to draw herself up proudly and sniff with disdain. “But what good is it? I asked you to construct something that would protect me from the thu’um, not something that would, what is it, vibrate? This won’t help me defend my city.”

“Ayem, this is the first step in crafting what you requested. If you understand how something works, you’re then able to deconstruct it, and from its mechanisms assemble something that will act as its antithesis. Every whole is composed of intricate parts. The thu’um is no different. The work I’m doing here is a disassembly of the parts, perhaps the first of its kind, and the truths I might glean… It’s staggering to think of, staggering! I’m appalled that you can’t see this.”

“I see finicky contraptions and nothing of use. You’ve had two years, Seht. Is this really all you’ve been able to do?”

Her skepticism troubled him, mostly because he knew that she wasn't wrong. Sotha Sil grimaced and sat back in his chair. “... Well.” he finally began, “Progress has been… difficult. I haven’t access to the resources I need, for one thing. My providers went missing, and what very little news we hear of the deep-people suggests the situation isn’t prone to improving. Political upheaval following their losses at Dunmeth Pass and Fort Virak, supposedly. At any rate, the market for Dwemer technology has all but dried up, and I’m woefully short on resources.”

“So you can’t do it, is what you’re saying.”

“Not exactly-- I just don’t have the materials, or the skill to craft the apparatus I’d need to create such a device. And short of capturing a Dwemer Stronghold for ourselves I doubt I’ll have access to such materials in the near future. I’m sorry.”

Almalexia didn’t seem to heed his apology; her eyes were distant, and she watched the contraption in deep concentration, observing the now-still crystal float safely within its nest of spellcraft. “And if we did capture a Dwemer Stronghold?”

The question caught him by surprise. “Then-- then I suppose I would be capable of crafting something that would negate the thu’um. It’s hard to predict what the Dwemer scientists have at their disposal, but I’ve no doubt that-- Yes, that opportunity would be quite…”

She turned to him, an eyebrow raised. “So you’d be able to do it?”

“You aren’t thinking of storming a Dwemer Stronghold, surely?”

“A device that would negate the thu’um is a powerful incentive. Don’t mistake me, I don’t relish the idea of waging needless war. But our current prosperity cannot last forever. If you can truly do this…”

“Ayem, people would die.”

“They would die if we were invaded by Nords.”

“They would _definitely_ die if we stormed Mzithumz. Put it from your mind.”

“But… fine, you’re right, you’re right.”

“... You’re still considering it, aren’t you?”

“How could I not?” She let out a long breath, turning away. “Can you fathom that power? We could drive the Nords from Morrowind with a tool like that. Even Ysmir wouldn’t be able to stand against us without his thu’um. No, I don’t relish the idea of waging needless war, even against the Dwemer. But we need our own power, for we’ve nobody else’s to rely on, do we? House Dres hasn’t communicated with me in months and House Indoril remains unshakably hostile towards us. Truly, how long can this truce last? How long will it be before Hoag or Chemua or some other ambitious Tongue arrives at our gates with an army?”  

“You fret too much.”

“I’m the Queen, I must fret. I’ve a city to protect.”

“And you are protecting it. We have an army, mines and food a-plenty. Mournhold is prospering. Worry has its uses, but too much will destroy you. For now all is well and all shall be well.”

Her back remained turned to him, but he saw her shoulders slump, the tension leave her body.

“Thank you.” She uttered after a moment. “You’re right. Thank you. Forgive me, I’ve been on edge lately.”

“Forgive me for not noticing. I’m sorry that I’ve been absent.”

“No, no, don’t apologize. I’m glad you’ve been pursuing your own interests-- it gladdens me to see you happy.”

“I’m not in Mournhold for happiness. Tomorrow I’ll resume my duties in court.”

“Seht, don’t bother, I beg you. I’ve already plans, I mean to seek out potential allies. Pursue this… esoteric research of yours, please, if you find something we can use I will be eternally grateful.”

“If you’re certain.” Frowning, he picked at the food she’d brought up, watching her dally at the window. “Almalexia?”

“It’s very late, isn’t it?” She cut him off. “Eat and go to sleep. I think I’ll rest myself.”

“Well… Goodnight, my Queen.”

“Goodnight, Sil.”

She walked over, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and then she’d left, leaving the wizard in silence once more. Outside a cloud crossed over one of the moons; beside him the gyroscope suddenly tilted, whirring softly, and adding to his familiar study a note of disquiet. Nothing was wrong and yet it was impossible to shake the idea that they were on the cusp of change.

Once, as a child, his grandmother had responded to a tragedy by observing simply that the moons were laughing. “The moons are laughing at us.” He recited aloud now. But the spirits of Ald Sotha were far away and the phrase only seemed to unsettle him further.    


***

 

Vehk had been napping in a nook behind one of the shelves of Bthuand’s library when the soft creak of an opening door disturbed hir from hir slumber.

It was third shift, the eight-hour period in which Tonal Architects were permitted to sleep. Bthuand was indeed resting in his private chambers, as anyone important enough to visit him should have been, and yet as Vehk listened keenly ze became quite certain that the sound which now disturbed the quiet air was that of the door to his study being pushed open. Indeed, when ze sat up and poked hir head around the shelf ze saw that the entry was ajar, and a single figure hovered in the doorway, silhouetted by the dim electrical light from the hallway. Surely no visitor had been approved at this hour, ze mused-- what was this?

Skin prickling, ze grabbed the closest thing that passed for a weapon-- an Architectural tuning fork that had been left on a shelf-- and slipped silently towards the door. The mysterious visitor didn’t seem to notice hir, and took a cautious step inside, looking around the lavish study with deep uncertainty.

Silent as a ghost, Vehk slid up behind the mysterious intruder and pressed the tuning fork into the small of their back. “What’cha looking for?”

The intruder cried out, flinging its hands up in surrender. “Don’t hurt me!” it whispered in frantic Dwemeris, “I seek the Chimer. The one belonging to the Tonal Architect.”

“... You found them.” Vehk pulled the fork away, taking a step back. In the dim hallway illumination ze could clearly make out the intruder’s face, and ze was mildly surprised to see that it was none other than the Apprentice Provisioner ze’d tormented earlier. The dwarf turned to face Vehk, blushing deeply, and he fell mute when he saw hir frowning in the dark.

“... Well?” Vehk prompted. “What do you want?”

The sharpness of hir tone caused the dwarf to fall a deeper shade of crimson. “Well, concerning what you said the other day, about-- about--”

“Sex?”

“No, no-- about love! I wish to learn more.”

Vehk raised an eyebrow in disbelief. Had ze not known better, ze’d have thought ze was being joked with. “You wish to learn more about… love.”

“Yes! You called it a paradox, the greatest force in the world. Why?”

“I’m no fool, I’m not giving you a reason to drag me off to the torture-master.”

“Its not a trick! I swear by Truth, Logic and all the golden tones I practice not the Chimer art of trickery.”

“Ha! Why would I believe you? You hate Chimer, you’re just looking for an excuse to have me killed.”

“I know our first meeting was sour and I apologize. I’ve been pondering on what you told me and it’s awoken the keenest fascination within me. I speak sincerely, I am compelled to learn all you know of love. Turn me into the Tonal Architect if you find reason to suspect me of treachery. I come for Truth only!”

Ze might have been irritated, if it weren’t for the sheer absurdity of the situation. As it stood ze found hirself simply lost for words; who, after all, had ever heard of a Dwemer being interested in love, of all things? Vehk regarded him warily, attempting to find a trace of a lie-- ze couldn’t, so ze cocked hir head, proceeding cautiously. “What do you want to know?”

“Why is love a paradox?”

“Because love’s meant for happiness and yet it usually brings suffering instead.”

“How does it bring suffering?”

“Ah… well, have you ever desired something?”

“I desire to be an effective member of my clan…”

“No, you don’t, you just think you desire it cause the Tonal Architects tell you that’s all you’re good for. Who cares if you’re effective or not? It doesn’t matter, that’s what automatons are for. If they needed you to be effective at serving gruel they’d just build a robot to do the same thing.”

The dwarf’s eyes widened. “Oh, you’re right…! How did you know the truth of my own mind? In all honesty I see no reason why we must always restrict ourselves to such rigorous discipline, surely we could just build automatons for the same tasks? And yet to voice this would be to throw a wrench in the gears, I’d surely be terminated for my radicalism. Tell me more of what I think!”

Vehk turned hir head away, hiding a smirk. This was a dangerous situation, to be sure, but there was something amusing in watching this Dwemer discover something so trivial as its own emotions. “You desire that I tell you more?”

“Yes, yes, I desire it! Tell me more of your strange surface-mer philosophies.”

“What if I didn’t? What if I shut my mouth and never said anything ever again?”

“Then, I would… you can’t do that! If you were to do that, I…”

“You would be sad? Or frustrated? You would feel as if I’d shut a door on you, and you were trapped on the outside, in utter darkness, never to see the light… your soul would be left with a gaping wound, your heart aching eternal, filled with rage that I would deprive you of such intoxicating knowledge?”

The dwarf exhaled, watching hir in near-rapture, with bated breath; Vehk sauntered over to Bthuand’s desk and hopped atop it, taking hir time in sitting neatly on the Architect’s notes and arranging hir legs before hir. “What you’re feeling,” ze finished, “is called desire. It’s why love is a paradox, and a painful, awful, wonderful thing. Stop listening to those lying Architects and you’ll come to know much of desire.”

The dwarf exhaled in awe, then frowned, as he considered what he’d been told. “If love is so painful, why feel it at all? Perhaps the Architects are right in forbidding it.”

“It’s not a matter of choice. You don’t choose to feel love! It simply happens, and you have to deal with it no matter how hard it is, just like any other emotion. You think we Chimer are frivolous because we ‘choose’ to feel, but the fact of the matter is that it’s not a choice, no more than feeling pain is. What if I were to stab you with this tuning-fork and then mock you for choosing to feel pain? It would be foolish, and calling us fools for feeling it just shows how little you know.”

“Is it possible for we Dwemer to feel emotion?”

“I’unno. Probably. I bet you feel it already, you just don’t have words for it. Bthuand gets angry with me when I say ‘I’unno’, and he’s happy when his theories are correct, I can tell it even if he doesn’t say it. Maybe it’s the same for all of you.”

“What am I feeling right now?”

Vehk laughed. “I don’t know. I’m not a mind-reader.”

“What are you feeling right now?”

“Me? I… I don’t know. I think I’m happy, I don’t think I’ve talked to anyone who isn’t Bthuand for more than a year now, and he’s boring.” Ze crinkled hir nose in thought. “Yes. Happy, or at least less sad than usual. I guess I’m usually sad, and scared, but right now I’m not particularly either, I guess that’s happy.”

“Haven’t you ever felt happiness?”

“Yes. Yes, of course I have.”

“Then how is it you don’t know that you’re happy now?”

“Shut up! I’ve been happy. I’ve been happy so many times. I was happy when Fa-Nuit-Hen taught me how to fight, I was happy whenever Voryn came to visit, I was happy that one time I got sick and Mephala let me have the day off and she even gave me a potion that she brewed to make me feel better, I used to be happy lots of times, I…”

Ze was speaking too quickly, ze realized, as if trying to persuade hirself rather than the Dwemer. And ze knew that ze didn’t believe hir own words, for each memory ze’d cited was tainted by the amount of tragedy and misery which they'd given rise to, so that even looking back on such memories only made hir heart ache. Ze faltered and trailed off, grateful that the study was still dark, for ze could feel tears pricking at the corners of hir eyes and the idea of the dwarf seeing hir so emotional was nothing short of repulsive.

But hir companion apparently caught hir moment of weakness and he spoke: “Forgive me if I asked wrongly, teacher. You’re right, I am ignorant in the ways of emotion, which is why I so wish to learn.”

“You’re excused.” Ze replied with some effort. “You did nothing wrong. It’s okay.”

“But I disrupted your happiness, didn’t I? Or is this merely another way of expressing it?”

“No, no, it’s… you made me think of the past. I have been happy, but looking back on it, it was for the wrong reasons. It was because I was being tricked, or used, or…” ze trailed off again, as a thought came to mind, and took in a long breath. “... There was one time I was happy and it didn’t turn out bad. After my village was taken by-- by-- I mean, after the dreugh took me. I was happy with the dreugh, I think, they were nice to me and I loved them and they loved me too. They taught me to fish and they gave me Milk Finger. We lived in the coral, under the ocean, we spent our days fishing and playing with the slaughterfish shoals. Once we caught a whale, a whole whale! You wouldn’t believe how big it was. I think I was five years old and I was happy then.” Hir voice softened slightly. “And when I met Seht. I was trying to rob him, I was just a kid. But then he made me saltrice porridge and then we walked to Ald Sotha, we walked right over the waves. He told me all these stories about Mournhold-- it’s a city made of light, where everyone’s protected by a beautiful Queen. Nothing bad happens in Mournhold. I’ve always wanted to go there. I was happy when I heard the stories of Mournhold, because Seht said that he knew the Queen and he’d introduce me, he said they'd love me so much and I would be safe… I was trying to go there when I got captured.”

“Is the ocean really so beautiful?”

“Yes, more beautiful than you could imagine. It’s blue as magic and sparkles like metal in the sunlight, and it’s always warm and gentle. I love the ocean.”

“Teacher, won't you tell me more? Of the ocean?”

Vehk beckoned to the desk, gesturing to the chair which sat besides it. “Sit down.”

The dwarf sat and for the next hour Vehk spoke of the ocean. Ze talked about the color: how some days it changed from slate-grey at the crack of dawn to an azure so clear and breathtaking that one felt as if they would be swallowed by it, while on other days it would be an opaque bottle-green or a dull teal spread or sometimes a brilliant fragile turquoise that blended seamlessly with the sky on the horizon; how when the storms blew down from the north it would churn dark and menacing, and how the night after the whole sea would be set aflame with the violent oranges and reds of an ash-choked sunset. Ze spoke of the world beneath the waves, the salty and active existence of the dreugh in their glittering palace of coral and glass, how the water was always warm and how great colorful fish would weave through the sea-grass and scatter when ze swam through their schools; ze recalled the taste of whale-meat consumed raw beneath the waves, and the scratchy clumsy language of the dreugh, and the way that sound was distorted underneath the water, so that if one closed their eyes they felt as if they were suspended outside of time and space; how the ocean always felt as if it was embracing hir, how safe it was under the sea. Ze shared memories of the wind, salty and cool against hir cheeks, and the playful lap of the tide over hir feet as ze gathered mushrooms by the shores of Holamayan, and the distant screech of cliffracers mingling harmoniously with the crash of water against rocks. These and so many other memories ze shared, and even in the limited language of the Dwemer they fell from hir lips as sweet as poetry, so by the time a buzzer marked half an hour before shift’s end hir voice was raw, and hir single audience’s eyes were wet with unfamiliar tears.

“I desire to see the ocean one day.” The dwarf said, after ze’d trailed off.

“So do I. I miss it.”  

“May I visit you again? There’s so much I need to learn from you-- how wise you are, surfacer, I wish to learn everything! I wish to learn of emotion, and of the wind, and what it is to love-- will you teach me?”

“I… I guess-- just don’t get me thrown back to the torture-master. I don’t want to go through that again, not ever.”

“I swear I will be as secretive as one of your kind!” Then the dwarf did something entirely unexpected-- he fell to his knees, a sign of respect reserved usually for the Tonal Architects themselves. Vehk watched with vague bemusement as hir new student bowed and made a few unfamiliar gestures, obviously meant to show respect. “Thank you, teacher. Thank you!”

“Don’t make this weird! Stand up, just get out of here before Bthuand wakes up.” Ze stood up, casting a nervous glance around. “Go!”

The Apprentice Provisioner bowed once more and scuttled out of the room. Vehk watched him go, yawned, and slipped back to hir own ‘room’, the glass-walled section of the study which Bthuand had designated as hir own. They’d spoken for hours, ze realized, and yet it didn’t seem so long. Had that really happened? Strange as it was, it felt like a dream… but not an entirely unpleasant one, and in fact ze was rather glad to have experienced it.

Ze decided that ze may have been wrong, then; if there was change on the horizon, perhaps it was, for once, for the better.

 

***

 

The shriek of a sword clashing with a sword; a dull _thud_ as her sword collided with a shield, and a sharp hiss of metal on metal as his sword glanced off of the back of her cuirass. He staggered with the force of his missed blow, leaving an opening, and she dove, lashing out for the finishing blow--

He stepped neatly out of the way and rammed his foot into her leg. She hit the ground with a resounding _clang,_ letting out a grunt as her fully-armored form came to an abrupt and painful stop.

With a slow groan, Almalexia rolled onto her back and fumbled to remove her helmet. A moment later strong arms hauled her to her feet, and she regained her footing with only a slight wobble to betray the pain. Through streaks of sweat she watched her opponent bow, and mumble in a gruff voice: “Apologies, m’Queen.”

“Don’t apologize,” she gasped, finally freeing herself from the helmet. “That was well done. Very well done. Did I do something wrong?”

“Thank you, m’Queen. And you didn’t do anything wrong, per se-- but you’re too forceful. Too many body-slams, it ent hard to take advantage of for anyone who’s fought with you before.” Her opponent-- a Nord by the name of Star-Sung, her Third Commander and a Shout since the days of Chemua’s rule-- removed his own helmet and fixed her with a crooked grin. “Try being more of an elf, eh?”

“Fine, fine. Next time we duel. That will be later, though-- I think you’ve bruised me enough for today.” She returned the Commander’s jovial smile and turned away, making for the door which lead from the training yards to the barracks. Her army, though receiving increasing numbers of optimistic Chimer warriors, remained largely Nordic; a small mark of this was that she was still welcome among them to spar as an equal, for Nords saw no reason why a King shouldn’t fight with his men and in fact welcomed the show of camaraderie. It was under the tutorage of Shouts that Almalexia had learned to wield a sword, with their aid that she ever-honed what skill as a warrior she possessed-- truth be told, in a climate as complex as Mournhold’s politics she treasured the simplicity of fighting. It had always been her sole source of respite-- even when her mother had died, even when Chemua took her city, even when Sotha Sil couldn’t be relied upon, swordfighting remained eternally straightforward and free of treachery. Truce or none, she frequently joined her soldiers in their drills, and her surety in her own abilities comforted her when words and companions failed.

The main hall of the barracks was crowded with Shouts returning from their latest guard shifts. One happy effect of the truce was that Mournhold was finally able to draw in its resources and furnish itself a proper army. Mournhold’s guard force had swollen in the past two years, growing from its humble origins to a truly formidable collective of soldiers rallying under Mother Ayem’s banner. Whether inspired Chimer or deserting Nord, the Commanders had done an admirable job in transforming an interesting assortment of Morrowind natives into a true militia. Not every eager recruit was fit for fighting, of course, but Almalexia had been adamant that no willing soul should be turned away: as such, the fledgling academy of Shad Astura had been recently plied with boatloads of new students, the Automaton-dispatching rogues had received plenty of prospective additions to their ranks, and the castle was better staffed than it had been in decades. This passionate magnanimity worried her treasurer, certainly, but Almalexia refused to believe that it was anything other than wise-- and here among the barracks, spirits were high as ever, her people laughed and joked with each other and greeted her with friendly calls of “Hai Ayem” when they noticed her amongst the crowd. All in all, Almalexia was quite satisfied that her city was prospering again.

She was helped out of her armor by her shield-bearer, another old companion from darker days. He was in high spirits-- he’d won some bet to do with the armor-eating properties of netch jelly, he informed her merrily-- and thus he was more talkative than usual, which Almalexia found she didn’t mind. He chattered all the while as he helped her out of her cuirass, sharing with her the day’s idle anecdotes and gossip he’d heard from the newly-returned Shouts: “... but all’s calm, even in the Eastern quarter, and you know how twitchy the rabble get. Though it’s the priests who have been stirring up trouble lately. The eclipse has everyone on edge, some are anticipating an apparition from Boethiah or Azura or even Mephala. But they’re scared, too, there was nearly a riot in South when someone said they saw the apparition of Molag Bal! It was just a training dummy with a cow’s skull on top, but it took an hour for the Shouts to talk some sense into everyone…”

“Talk some sense? I hope you’re only referring to talking.”

“Only talking, of course, they wouldn’t hurt anyone without reason. Talking only-- they pointed out that you wouldn’t let Molag Bal appear in your city. Now there’s a rumor going around that you’ve fought him yourself. Molag Bal, that is.”

“How odd!”

“Not entirely. Lots of us consider Chemua a sort of Molag Bal, and you fought him, didn’t you? Step up, serjo.”

Almalexia stepped awkwardly out of the heavy ebony greaves. Finally freed from the uncomfortable armor, she turned away and stretched, wincing-- the soreness from the fall promised to leave her with some colorful bruises tomorrow. “It’s good that they trust in me. They must know that I’ll protect them.”

“You’ve proved that. Sure, the nobles think you’re a coward for making peace with the Nords, but we’ve all had it so good nobody has it in them to argue. Especially with what word we get from Ebonheart…”

“And what word have we had from Ebonheart?”

“Nothing new, I’m afraid. Cruethys’ raiders massacre anyone who tries to get in or out of the city.”

“Damned Ra’athim guar. How much blood must he shed before he admits he’s lost the city?”

“That’s just the way of elves, isn’t it!” Star-Sung, coming up behind them, announced-- he too had de-armored, and he held two tankards of mead in his hands, one of which he offered to Almalexia. “Always willing to shed some blood for the cause. No offence meant, m’Queen, I don’t think it’s a bad thing.”

“I see no virtue in shedding innocent blood.” Almalexia sniffed, taking the tankard from him.

“All due respect, maybe that’s why this Ebonheart business has been dragged on for so long. You have a solid army at your fingertips, give that old crow Valyn the reins and he’d sort Cruethys out in minutes.”

“Valyn is a Mora, as is Cruethys. I can’t turn House-kin against each other.”

“But the Nord has a point, Mother Ayem” Her shield-bearer nodded to Star-Sung in respect. “The Shouts have never been stronger and yet we’ve never been put to the test. A chance to bloody our blades would prove our might to everyone, and remind the Nords that we aren’t to be trifled with.”

“You want me to send an army after Cruethys?”

“If it’d get him to stop massacring Ebonheart citizens. I have a sister in Ebonheart, you know. I’d like to see her again one day...”

Almalexia scowled. “We won’t prove ourselves by shedding blood needlessly. It would be cruel.”

“What’s an army for, if to shed blood? If it leaves you with such a bad taste in your mouth, maybe you ought to find yourself a husband with a stronger gut!” Star-Sung suggested.

Almalexia knew enough of Nords to know that he’d meant it as a joke; it still struck her the wrong way, and she reacted immediately, putting her drink down and laughing mirthlessly. “A husband? Have you been speaking to Nam? No, sera, I’m not seeking a husband. And my gut is fine, thank you. If you feel my methods are too soft, you’re welcome to go running to Ebonheart and enlisting with the Nords-- provided Cruethys doesn’t get you first. I have no patience for needless cruelty.”

“Mother Ayem!” Her shield-bearer proclaimed happily. “So merciful! All of Morrowind is blessed to have you caring for them so.”

She smiled triumphantly, and Star-Sung flushed, making a noise of derision. “Pah. Elves are soft. This is why we Nords are the backbone of your army.”

“Then I’m worried for our safety-- how weak must that backbone be, if it starts to doubt itself after only a couple of years of peace?”

“Who said anything about doubting! I know for a fact that the Shouts are as strong as any army in the East. It’s Hoag’s men that don’t know it, is what I’m worried about.”

Almalexia grinned at her Commander. “Your confidence gladdens me. Now go make sure your soldiers have performed their drills, or _I_ shall start doubting our strength.”

Star-Sung departed with a bow and Almalexia leaned back, her grin giving way to a scowl of pain. Her shield-bearer handed her a mug and she accepted it gratefully, taking a long drink to ease the soreness.

“... He has a point, sera.” Her shield-bearer started after a moment. “Your soldiers don’t doubt you, of course, but they’d benefit from a real test of strength, you know?”

Almalexia didn’t reply. Her mind had wandered to, of all things, her earlier conversation with Sotha Sil, and she recalled how he’d chastised her for even suggesting that they’d go to needless war. She shook her head, replying firmly, “What I said to Star-Sung I stand by. We are not tyrants. I’m no blood-hungry warlord; I don’t look to expand my walls, or seize the territory of others, even if the truce weren’t in place I want only as much land as it takes to care for my people. Mournhold is my dominion and its people my children, why would I do something that would endanger my children so needlessly?”

“Mother Ayem, Mother Mercy.” Recited her shield-bearer, with a note of melancholy. “I just...”

“Speak your mind, sera.”

“I wonder if he isn’t right. About you getting a husband. Didn’t Nam offer you one? Maybe you should--”

“I do _not_ need a husband!" she snapped, visibly angry now. "Gods, why all this talk of marriage today? I am fully capable of ruling on my own, and I am not about to get on my knees for some stranger for the sole reason that I won’t shed needless blood. Do you doubt my proficiency as a ruler?”

“No, serjo! Never!”

“Do you believe I cannot rule on my own?”

“That’s not--”

“Do you doubt that I have rightly earned my position? Have I not shed enough blood and tears for my crown that I can go a year without being trifled about the matter of a _husband_?”

“I-I just meant-- the Indorils-- Maybe-- forgive me, Mother Ayem, I meant no offence!”

“You’re dismissed for the day.” Almalexia told him curtly. The poor shield-bearer, sweating and fumbling with his words, bowed deeply and bolted.

Though she hadn’t spoken with the Prince since the day of her coronation, Almalexia could sense Boethiah’s presence written all over this situation. There was some sort of conspiracy at work here; someone was having her on. Prickling with suspicion, she donned a robe over her under-armor bindings and slipped out of the armory, padding alone back to her private chambers.

The only occupant at this time was her aging steward, stalwart Gunthir, who didn’t seem to notice her approach until she stood squarely in front of his desk and coughed loudly. “My Jarl,” the Nord greeted her hastily, peering up at her. “How may I serve?”

“I need to organize a meeting with someone.” Almalexia replied. “Although it may require you to argue with the treasurer. We’re going to need a… rather substantial bribe.”

“Who, precisely, are we bribing?”

“The Indorils. I have reason to suspect that Nam has been toying with my soldiers and I want to know why. The treasurer will no doubt be upset, but pacify her until I return and can explain the situation myself.”

“The Indorils are spying… that would explain the scamp, I suppose…”

“The scamp?”

“Commander Valyn has passed on… rumors, say… of a scamp who has been known to reside near the Northern tower… the soldiers make a game of trying to catch it, but the Commander found reason to be concerned, and wished me to inform you.”

“A scamp outside of Sotha Sil’s tower! How quaint. Nam’s always been awful at subterfuge. Very well, I’ll see what I can learn.” She turned away and made for her chambers.

“Don’t make any more enemies.” Gunthir called to her as she left.

 

***

 

Almalexia was unsurprised to find that the Indorils remained opulent in their own way, and their kinhouse still decadent in the stark and refrained style that only the Velothi could truly master. Nam’s Mouth lead her through high-ceiling hallways wrought of ebony-ore, past walls embossed with gold-leafed frescoes depicting every great achievement of its members between the founding of the House and the present day: the earliest ones bearing scenes of mantled and robed Chimer bending humbly among saltrice-fields, assisting their fledgling Queen in raising a home for Veloth’s children from the fertile Deshann soil. They went on to cross other scenes, each one more elaborate and exaggerated than the last, until the artwork had evolved into golden glittering murals which stretched all the way to the ceiling, larger-than-life elves committing marvelous acts of benevolence that, to some interpretations, saved the very world from the brink of destruction. House Indoril was perhaps more prone to grandeur than any other Great House, but they were conscious of their image and thus true to the ways of Veloth despite this-- officially it was claimed that the marvelous frescoes, embossed with gold and gemstones, were simply a matter of preservation of history, and the glittering glass fixtures which hung from the ceiling a homage to Prince Azura. The kinhouse was thus a perfect representation of that delicate and deliberate hypocrisy which came so naturally to their race, so starkly different from the blunt and direct Nordic philosophies that upon crossing the threshold to Indoril’s domain one was reminded, jarringly, how fundamentally different the occupied were to their occupiers.

The experience was, Amalexia found, unsettling; she was the stranger to these halls, and yet it was her own ancestors depicted in those ornate frescoes. Their glittering gemstone eyes seemed to follower her as she passed.

Her title of Queen of Mournhold entitled her to be presented with the finest hospitalities House Indoril had to offer; her status as a traitor and exile entitled that they be served to her in the stoniest silence Nam was capable of maintaining. The Grandmaster hadn’t so much as acknowledged her from the moment she entered his chambers, and now remained hunched by the fire, brewing an elaborate tea reserved for only the most important occasions.  As the guest and as a stubborn individual besides, Almalexia herself kept quiet, meeting his hateful silence with her own reserved dignity.

The Grandmaster’s chambers were one of the finest in the building, situated near the top of the kinhouse and particularly arranged for receiving important visitors; the interior of the room had been furnished with glass chandeliers, specifically designed to catch the light which poured in from the windows and flood the rest of the room with it, so that in the afternoon the chambers were bathed in a muted lilac which mirrored the color of the city outside. She sat still and dignified on a cushion of woven kreshweed, before a long low table that had been laid with an assortment of dainty Deshaan hors d’oeuvres and pots of fragrant incense-- idly she skimmed the arrangement and noticed a plate of honeycomb pastries had been included, her childhood favorite. An interesting touch.

Finally the Grandmaster returned from the fireside. He placed before her two clay cups, and from an ornate teapot he filled them to the brim with a sharp-scented brew; she took one at random and drank of it deeply, a necessary show of trust from the despised guest. Nam did likewise, and with that custom finally out of the way he took his place opposite her and broke his silence at last.

“Though you’ve spat upon the ways of Veloth in every other way possible, at least you recall a few basic customs.” There was no rule in the etiquette that stated he had to be polite.

“Forgotten the ways of Veloth?” Almalexia returned. “I might remind you that I’m currently the ruler of the free Chimer. It’s more than you yourself can claim.”

“Whatever titles you give yourself, you remain a traitor and a cheat, betrayer to House Indoril. Speak, traitor. Why do you sour my chambers with your vile presence?”

He spoke not in the common language of Aldmeris, but in the whimsical lilting tongue of Chimeris-- Almalexia had not used the latter since Chemua’s ousting, and she was forced to pause and reaccustom herself to it before answering, a little awkwardly, “I have a request.”

“Unlikely I will grant it, but continue.”

“I want access to the Indoril tombs.”

“Absolutely not! The tombs are our most sacred ground, reserved for members of House Indoril only.”

“My mother’s bones are in that tomb. You would prevent me from seeing my own mother?”

“Perhaps you should have considered that before severing ties with us.”

“You can’t be intending to keep me from my ancestors forever? For someone who claims to be true to Veloth, you suggest something that goes against his most fundamental codes.”

“You are a House-Traitor. Guilty of the greatest sin one of the Velothi may commit. To all true sons of Veloth you are no better than a Nord, and we give you only the mercy you deserve.”

She narrowed her eyes and took a sip of the repulsively bitter tea, saying nothing. Evidently her resolve took the Grandmaster by surprise, for he added shortly, “That said, House Indoril has shown you mercy enough already. We offered you a route by which you may rejoin our House. And, in fact, I would still be willing to consider it.”

“You want me to marry an Indoril.”

“Is the idea really so repulsive to you? You’ve no good reason to deny the offer.”

“I’m willing to barter with many things, but my hand is not for sale. I won’t marry a man I don’t wish to, beneficial or not.”

“For what reason?”

“For the reason that I don’t _want_ to. I endured seven years of something which I didn’t want to do, while House Indoril looked on and said nothing, I might add. I feel as though I’m entitled to act on my own desires.”

“Act on your own desires!” Suddenly Nam barked out a laugh. “Oh, you snake. We’ve no doubt you’re acting on your desires-- by marrying someone else, in fact. We’ve heard the rumors.”

“What rumors, Nam? What are you speaking of?”

“You plan to wed Sotha Sil, don’t you?”

She was so surprised that her decorum momentarily escaped her-- she sputtered, in stunned Aldmeris, “Sotha Sil?! You think I-- no, of course I don’t!”

“But he is your lover, no?” Nam replied in the same tongue.

“We-- We’ve known each other in that way, yes, but I’ve been with dozens of men! You would have to accuse me of being engaged to half my court!”

“Still your lying tongue, Almalexia. You cannot persuade me that that man is no more than a simple beau to you.”

“He’s my advisor and my friend, not my star-crossed lover. And-- and even if we were madly in love, I’m not of his House, am I? A marriage between a banner-house of House Dagoth and the Hortator of House Dres would never be permitted. It’d start a war!”

“How convenient! Do you truly think we wouldn’t hear about House Sotha’s divorce of House Dagoth? And the suspicious activity of Dres on the Inner Sea? Why is that, I wonder?”

“What? House Sotha divorced House Dagoth?”

The expression of surprise in her face must have seemed genuine, for Nam faltered, as if surprised that he hadn’t unveiled her grand conspiracy right there and then. “You didn’t know it?”

“I didn’t. But Sil receives frequent communication from his brother Serlyn. If he didn’t see fit to tell me, he must have a reason...  All is well, I’m sure, he’d have told me if it weren’t.”

“How very odd.” Nam conceded. “And that has nothing to do with the engagement, then?”

“By the Three, Nam, I am not engaged to Sotha Sil! Even if I _wanted_ to marry him, I wouldn’t!” Almalexia’s voice softened slightly and she looked away, frowning. “Truth be told I don’t know how much longer I can keep him in Mournhold. He’s a dear friend and a great help to me, but the both of us are getting older, we’re no longer children and we can’t afford to be so idle. He should be with his House, at Ald Sotha, finding his own wife and starting his own family, pursuing his own interests… he’s not happy in Mournhold, politics aren’t what he was meant for and I know he fears for his House’s wellbeing. He is dear to me, I’d keep him by my side if I could, but he cannot stay here forever.”

For the moment the tension between them had thawed, and Nam made a sympathetic noise, drinking of his own tea. “You are in love with him, then?”

“No, I… no, certainly not. He’s my dear friend and I care for him, but…”

“But you don’t love him.”

“He’s a man. I don’t know. My taste for men has been rather soured.”

“You don’t enjoy being with men?”

“Why would I? They’re arrogant, they look down upon me, I derive no pleasure from sleeping with them, save the material gain doing so gets me. Your husband, Nam, would be no different.”

Nam considered this, looking rather troubled by the unusual information. “So it’s your pride you’re worried about! Hm. Well, I have a few noblemen of weaker will than most, whom you would be able to rule with ease…”

“That’s not the point. No matter who you found for me, I’d still refuse. How do you think we arrived at this occasion? I’ve fought tooth and nail for this city, my station was bought with my own blood, and in things worse than blood.” She raised her hand to her cheek, grazing the deep scar which still marred her face. “Look at all I’ve done for Mournhold! My mother was the Queen but I didn’t inherit my position-- I won it, fought for it and earned it, it is _mine_ . Tell me, which son of House Indoril would you dare suggest is worthy of standing by my side? Nobody is worthy of that position, for nobody has guarded my city and my people as well as I have. _That_ is the real reason why I refuse this offer, and why I will refuse it until I meet someone deserving of being Mournhold’s father.”

A deep silence fell between them, Almalexia sitting stiff and defensive, Nam watching her with an unreadable expression. Finally the Grandmaster sighed deeply, taking a sip of his bitter tea. “I’ve always wondered the true identity of your father.” He said, switching back to Chimeris. “Your mother was never this arrogant. I spoke to her only last month, did you know that?”

“You did? Is she doing well?”

“As well as a spirit may be. She wished to know how you were faring. She seemed dismayed to hear that you were stubborn as ever, and expressed her sadness that you hadn’t made peace with our House. You know she wished you to have an easier life than this.”

“Spare me, Nam, you’re awful at manipulation.”

“I speak the truth, you paranoid child. For all you whine about your time under the Nords, you endured hardly a fraction of it compared to what she did. She was Queen at the time they invaded. If you had any idea of what those who’ve come before you have gone through, you’d never be so stubborn.”

“My mother was too passive. I’m not nearly as meek as she was.”

“Meek! Your mother was anything but meek, and I won’t have you disrespect her, not for the lengths she went to on your behalf. Do you know what trouble you caused, even as a child? The Queen herself, coming back from Vvardenfall with a fatherless infant in her arms and that quiet determination of hers… she went to great lengths to ensure your placement in House Indoril, you know,  originally the councilors tried to refuse you. Nobody could decide whether you were the old Jarl’s bastard, another House’s bastard... Molag Bal’s bastard was even suggested as a possibility. There were rumors that your mother had gone to Mount Assarnibibi at the time of that awful business, our previous Grandmaster persuaded himself that she really had born a child to the King of Rape. Of course we convinced him otherwise in the end, but there was a great controversy at the time...” Nam paused, and stared at the contents of his cup, eyes lost in memory. “... But that was her way, controversial in her own right. And whatever they believed, my sister was no evil spirit. Whoever your father was, he was worthy, I have no doubt of that.”

An awkward silence fell between them, and Almalexia looked away, suddenly uncomfortably aware of her own youth. “... I’m sorry.” She mumbled.

“Now there’s something I never hoped to hear.” Nam laughed. “Don’t trouble yourself. Yes, she would have had you follow in her footsteps, but you aren’t her. I’m sure she knew deep down that you were destined for greater things.”

“Do you think… is she proud of me?”

“What does pride matter to creatures such as her or you? You do what is necessary, what serves your people. No more, no less.”

Almalexia took a sip of her tea, attempting to hide the emotion which suddenly threatened to show in her face. It seemed odd, her feud with House Indoril-- when all the custom and tradition was pulled aside, it was still her uncle who sat before her, aging and weary now, but still familiar and still beloved. What must this situation look like to him, the man who’d carried her around Mournhold when she was too small to walk alone, and told her stories about scribs? For a moment she had a keen desire to tell him that she loved him still, and there was a ache in her chest, the ache of someone who missed their family very much.

Of course, none of this would be appropriate to say, so she chose something else to continue the conversation with: “Did you really plant a scamp to spy on Seht?”

“A scamp? What on Nirn do you speak of?”

“Apparently there’s a scamp living outside his tower. Spying. Was that truly not you?”

“No! I wouldn’t stoop to your level, snake.”

“Is that so? You haven't participated in even a little subterfuge?”

“Oh, fine, I did send my men to have some words with your soldiers, bribed them to bring up the idea. That’s the extent of it. Don’t be so paranoid, you’ll concern your advisors.” Nam chuckled to himself. “A scamp! How novel. Perhaps one of those Sothas are using it to keep tabs on their prodigal son.”

“Seht’s own family wouldn’t spy on him, not unless Sohleh…” she trailed off, recalling uneasily the news Sotha Sil had given her of Ald Sotha once, and Sotha Sohleh’s treachery.

“... Unless Sohleh?”

“Unless nothing. You hate me, I won’t give House Sotha’s secrets to someone who hates me. I--”

Abruptly the door to the chambers swung open and they both turned to the intruder in surprise. “Serjo,” Nam’s Mouth announced himself, bowing deeply as he did, “A visitor for the traitor.”

“Are they with you?” Nam asked curtly.

“No, serjo. It was a Nord, I didn’t want it to sully the halls of our kinhouse. I ordered it to wait outside.”

Almalexia, with a sigh, stood up and placed her tea down. “I’ll go ask _it_ what it wants, then. Forgive me for sullying your halls for so long, Nam, I’m sure it was a grievous burden.”

“Ah, now, that’s… You’re excused, I suppose.”

She made to leave, but Nam halted her. “Almalexia? About the tombs… I’ll pass word to the guards that you’re permitted a single audience with your mother. That is the extent of my generosity towards you.”

“Are… are you sure? Nam, this is unspeakably kind, thank you--”

“Don’t thank me. It’s for her sake, not yours. Now begone! I’ve had enough of you, traitorous fetcher.”

His voice was still harsh, but there was a certain softness to his eyes, and she could see from the lines of his face that he was forcing himself not to smile. So she grinned at him in return, ]bowed deeply, and escorted herself from the kinhouse to meet the Shout outside.

It was the last genuine smile she’d give for a long time.

  


***

  


Sotha Sil had first become alerted to the scamp when a hapless Shout fell screaming past his window. Fortunately he’d been in the middle of positioning his new telescope lenses in midair and was able to cast a levitate on the poor soul before she hit the ground, but he made no secret of his displeasure at being interrupted so unconventionally, and as she recovered from the shock he demanded that they take a walk up to the top of the tower and have a firm discussion on etiquette with her accomplices.

At the top of the tower they met two other Shouts, both of whom seem overjoyed to find their companion had been saved. As they reunited with embraces and apologies, Sotha Sil stood by with arms crossed, glowering until they took notice of him and fell sheepishly silent, cowering under his stare.

“Ah, my lord…” The Shout who’d fallen, a stocky Nord woman, bowed to him. “Forgive me this again. And don’t yell at Ulven or Klimmik, it ent their fault, I was the one who jumped after that damned scamp…”

“The scamp.” Sotha Sil raised an eyebrow, keeping his expression carefully neutral.

“There’s a scamp been lurking about your tower.” Explained the Nord named Klimmik. “Commander Star-Sung’s offering a hundred gold to whoever catches it first. We tracked it up here with Ulven’s help, but it slipped out between our fingers before we could snatch it.”

“And you didn’t see fit to inform me of this?”

“You’re the court wizard, we assumed you knew.” The one called Ulven, a sharp-featured Chimer, squinted at him. “Did you not know?”

Sotha Sil decided not to dignify that with an answer. “Where is this scamp now?”

“Dove off the side of the tower.”

“... Are you willing to continue the hunt, then?”

Ulven, as it turned out, had been born an ashlander and remained a talented hunter. Within half an hour they’d tracked the scamp to the castle wall, where the masonry near the base was crumbling. Stepping as lightly as possible, Sotha Sil crept to the rubble and found that it concealed a small tunnel, from which a faint current blew-- by the smell and the location, the tunnel probably lead to the expansive labyrinth of Mournhold’s sewers.

“This its den?” Klimmik whispered, peering over his shoulder.

Rather than answering, Sotha Sil cast a magelight into the tunnel. It was narrow, hardly large enough for a child to fit through-- about ten feet below he could see a small hovel, littered with paper, wells of ink and letter-wax.

“Watch my back.” Sotha Sil ordered.

“Are you going in? Is that safe?”

“No, but I need to see what it’s stolen. If it returns, capture it-- avoid killing it. And keep my robes clean.”

Sotha Sil had never been a particularly healthy man, and though now well into adulthood one would be hard-pressed to find even a child more slight than he. Once he’d removed several layers of mage’s robes he was slender enough to slide through the hole with minimal difficulty, though his underclothes were soon quite soiled from scraping along the slimy tunnel walls. It was colder within the hole, and he shuddered in revulsion as he made his way beneath the ground, down into the bowels of the clammy hovel. He landed with a soft ‘oof’ and caught an unpleasant squelch as his prosthetics sunk into the rotting floor.

In the faltering glow of his magelight he could more clearly see the den the scamp had made for itself. In one wall a narrow tunnel wafted sewer-stench into the chamber; the chamber itself was low-ceilinged and barren but for a single crate propped in the corner, serving as what seemed to be a makeshift desk, its surface scattered with quills, ink-pots, candles and tubs of scarlet wax, and what seemed to be sealing-stamps. Sotha Sil had never heard of a scamp writing such official correspondence; he crept forwards and lifted the seals, examining them.

One was fashioned into Mournhold’s official seal. Another was identical to the seal of House Sotha.

“Lord Sotha!” One of the Nords called down from far away. “What’ve you found?”

Sotha Sil didn’t answer. Slowly he bowed and lifted one of the discarded letters that lay half-torn by mud. He could see now that its seal was Dres, and though the dank had ruined the script, he could discern a few broken sentences: “ _... emua progresses south… Ebonheart fallen… Cruethys dead, as far as we can tell… write so… please!”_

Another letter sat on the desk, half-burned, with Ald Sotha’s seal. “ _Sehti, you must return, father… since our brother died, Ald Sotha…”_

“Lord Sotha!” Called the Nord again. “Are you alright?”

Sotha Sil pocketed the scraps of letter. “Go find Almalexia.” He called back. “Urgently.”

“Eh? What’s wrong?”

“Everything is wrong. Go!”

They ran and he returned his gaze to the torn letter in his hand, the one still bearing Ald Sotha’s decayed and crumbling seal. “ _... but you reply not. Have you forsaken us? Are you too parly to this evil? Sehti, how could you? Everything is hopeless, I have given up hope… the moons are laughing at us, for Azura must hate us, as do you!”_

“The moons are laughing at us.” He whispered to himself. It seemed now a particularly sordid prophecy.

 

***

 

Vehk was fast asleep, dreaming that ze chased crabs over rocks in the shadow of a tower, when a sharp sense of danger shook hir from hir slumber. Ze sat up, crawling from hir bed, and, squinting in the utter darkness of the study, groped around for the tuning fork ze’d stashed beneath hir pillow. Ze found it and with the makeshift weapon in hand ze snuck out of the door, prepared to face whoever intruded upon hir captor’s study at this auspicious hour.

To hir utter surprise it was the same Apprentice Provisioner that had disturbed hir before, but now he was accompanied by two other dwarves. “Teacher!” exclaimed the Provisioner with obvious happiness. “There you are! Forgive me for being absent these past weeks, I’ve been busy and haven’t had time to roam--”

“Who’re those two?” Vehk interrupted hir.

“These are two of my clan-kin. I told them of your teachings and they wish to learn, too-- we’ve brought you gifts, won’t you accept them?”

On cue, the two other dwarves stepped forwards and offered forth their ‘gifts’. One was a ream of parchment, thick and creamy and eggshell-white. The other was a pot of deep cobalt ink. The Provisioner, too, had brought a gift-- a quill, carefully crafted of bone and glass. Vehk observed the three presents with deep skepticism, and sensing hir wariness the Provisioner hastened to explain:

“I told my compatriots of your words and they too wished to hear. They thought we might bring you these gifts so that you could write down what you told me, so that we might read it often and experience happiness by reading it. Will you accept our gifts, Teacher?”

“I accept them.” Vehk said, hesitant. “But don’t think I’m going to write you poetry for free.”

“Poetry? What is poetry?”

“It’s… they’re words that make you feel emotion. You read it and you feel things, that’s what poetry is. The Chimer write lots of it.”

“How wonderful! Are you a writer of poetry, teacher?”

“I dunno. I guess I could try. Not for free, though.”

“My compatriots and I can provide whatever you desire, within reason. What is it you want?”

“... Skoomer. A vial of skoomer for one poem”

This answer seemed to confuse the dwarves and they exchanged befuddled glances. But that made Vehk laugh and ze took their presents from them. “But later. You’re here, right? Come, come, I’ll talk, if that’s what you want. Today we’re going to talk about love.”

“About love!”

“Sure! Sit down, sit down, I just had the most marvelous dream about it. What do you know of marriage?”

“We’ve never heard that word, teacher. Tell us of it!”

“It’s a ceremony in which two people become one person. Molag Bal taught it to the Chimer so that one person could take another person and make that person their possession, but the Temple mer lie and say that it’s Azura’s gift of love to us. Anyway, now its a wonderful ceremony. It only… well, Chimer have two genders, and marriage can only take place between the men and the women--”

“What is your gender?”

“I don’t have one.”

“How odd! And us?”

“You don’t either, but I suppose the Chimer would call you all men, cause you have beards.”

“And marriage may only take place between bearded and non-bearded Chimer? How very, very odd.”

“No, no, that’s not-- that’s not exactly it. Having a beard doesn’t mean you’re a man, they just tend to think that way. But that’s not my point.”

“Teacher, you have no gender, but gender is required for marriage. If you were to marry, would that be permitted?”

“I… I guess. I was sort of married, and they assumed I was a girl but-- No. I don’t want to talk about that. You keep interrupting me, let me make my point! Gods! My point is that marriage is done under the pretext of love. You say that two people love each other and then you marry them and they belong to each other after that, as if they were one person. That’s how it is to be in love, you feel as if you want to merge with the other person and spend every moment with them, always do as they do and be with them forever.”

“But this is not particular to the Chimer.” This time the interruption came not from the Provisioner but one of his companions. He had the sort of dark gaze which one usually kept downcast, and a soft voice which didn’t seem accustomed to speaking out of turn, but he met Vehk’s eyes and spoke clearly nonetheless. “All Dwemer possess a psychovibrational connection to one another, which may be used to exchange instruction and information at will. In some cases co\workers may find their actions occurring simultaneously so often that they become keenly attuned to each other, and find it difficult to function in each other’s absence. This is no different to the phenomenon you describe.”

Vehk stared at him for a long moment, and then broke into laughter. “Yes, that’s love!”

“Is it?”

“You sound like you know what you’re talking about. Are you keenly attuned to someone?”

“Well-- yes, a warrior whom I often accompany on shifts. Guard duty is unstimulating, and so as he stands post I bring him tomes from the library and read to him. The Tonal Architect permits it on the basis that all should be enlightened, even lowly guards.”

“Tell me, then, what if that warrior were to go out to the wild and never return? Or to return bloodied and broken, a corpse?”

“Then I would likely experience a decrease of productivity in my attempt to readjust my habits in his absence.”

“Wrong answer. How would you feel?”

“... I’m not sure. I know not what emotions are, yet.”

“What he alludes to, I believe, is sadness.” Said the Provisioner. “You would feel sad if Dachuur were to die.”

“Sadness? Is that what I feel now?”

“Do you feel as if your heart is a physical weight in your chest?” Pressed Vehk. “As if your guts have turned to lead? As if your limbs are too heavy and you never want to move again, as if the world without this man would feel lifeless and dull and grey and without reasons to keep existing?”

“I… Yes, I suppose I would experience something of that sort, but surely that can be attributed to readjustment pains?”

“I felt that.” The third dwarf said in a murmur, “Just one month ago, when one of my coworkers was killed in an accident with a prototypical spider that went rogue. He was well-known and familiar to us… the readjustment period was difficult, to say the least.”

“That’s sadness. What you experienced was mourning and it’s what happened when someone you love dies.”

“Have you mourned?”

“Hm… well. No.”

“Why is that? Has nobody you loved ever died, teacher?”

“Quite the opposite! In fact… I murdered the man I loved.”

Small gasps from hir audience; ze grinned, enjoying the effect that hir exaggeration had on them. “Tell us of him!” Urged the Provisioner.

“His name was Voryn; he had skin like palest bronze and eyes the color of the night-sky and a voice as sweet as honey. His hands were always gentle and his words were always kind… he was an older man, far older than I, but I’d been with older men before, I didn’t care. He found me a new home and visited me, often bringing gifts and sweetest compliments… He was my first love, truly! I lived for the days we met! I loved him passionately when he was there and I hated him when he was gone, I loathed him for leaving me, I grieved and wept over the pain he caused with his absence. I begged him to marry me, but he always spurned my advances…”

“Why? Was he married already?”

“No, no. Not that I know of, anyway. The priests used to whisper that he was involved with his Nord friend, but I dunno if that’s any more than rumors… I digress.”

“But did he love you?”

“Ah, see, this is where the tragedy began. Although he tore my heart to shreds so often, I still convinced myself that he loved me-- right until he turned around and sunk his knife into my back! Not literally, no, it was a far more painful betrayal-- for he betrayed my heart, my trust and my emotions. I came to him one night, I’d made myself beautiful, as a gift for him… and I overheard him saying the most evil things about me!”

“Evil things!”

“Evil things! He said I was evil, a sinner, a corrupter of souls and a seducer of the flesh. He wanted to have me terminated, the way you terminate faulty automatons and poor workers.”

“So you terminated him first?”

“That makes it sound so logical. My heart was breaking, I ceased to think. I fled for the door of my prison but he attempted to catch me, he couldn’t bear for me to escape-- so I stabbed him, right in his stomach, with my spear!”

This had a strange effect on hir audience, for they glanced at one another, each blushing-- ze was about to ask what troubled them when one spoke, sheepishly, “By a spear, do you mean a… a phallic part?”

“Eh? No, no! Goodness, who taught you to think in such scandalous ways? It was a literal spear, don’t be disgusting.”

“We heard that Chimer, when referring to their ‘spears’, oft as not mean to speak of their genitals…”

“You heard from a pervert! It’s a literal spear, its name is Milk-Finger and I love it as dearly as if it were my metaphorical spear.” Ze paused, thinking. “I wonder what happened to it-- I possessed it when I stumbled in here, I suppose Bthuand has it. I want it back. Hey, there’s an idea-- you want poetry? Get me Milk Finger and I’ll write whatever you want.”  

“It shall be done!” Proclaimed the Provisioner. “We will retrieve your Milk Finger, teacher!”

“Pardon me,” said the second dwarf humbly, the one in love. “What does any of this have to do with marriage? You told us it has to do with love but I understand not the point you make.”

“Ah, well, I was just using marriage as an example. Chimer have many relationships, not just marriage. We have friendships, families, acquaintances, rivals and idols and acquaintances and coworkers. There’s countless ways we might relate to one another and feel for one another.”

“But we Dwemer have that too. We’ve clan-kin and coworkers too.”

“Tell me, how much energy must you expend in order to maintain those connections?”

This question seemed to surprise him. “... An odd question, for being loyal to our clan-kin is inbuilt into us like the latent function of an automaton, it requires only passive energy. But if must estimate I might say… three grams?”

Ze’d asked it as a joke, but Vehk nodded sagely at this answer, in understanding. “That is the base energy level for most neutral family relationships, such as cousins and uncles and aunts. To remain close with a sibling you must expend ten grams of energy, for siblings often turn to rivals, which naturally require more energy than friends. Friends begin as strangers and so require approximately twenty grams of energy to forge and keep. Rivals require a staggering fourty-five grams of energy to keep, but you are rewarded richly in self-love for having one and besting him, so many find the endeavor worthwhile. Are you taking notes?”

It was all nonsense, of course, but the dwarves listened as attentively as disciples. “And is love a form of energy?” Asked the Provisioner.

“Yes, yes! But it’s reciprocal energy, energy that renews itself. The percentage of it varies between bonds and that determines how dear that relationship is to you. Being someone’s lover requires about seven grams of energy, more or less depending on how neatly your souls interlock, but most of that is love and so it’s pure and rewarding.”

“So this is why you Chimer bother with love! It provides you energy, then?”

“There you are again, thinking it’s a choice. I cannot stop loving any easier than you could stop thinking. It’s not a choice, it is a necessity, as necessary as speech or thought or air. Chimer society is based on love in all its forms-- this is the point I was making. We are beings of love.”

The Dwemer fell silent, exchanging glances-- Vehk had come to know that this probably meant they were conferring within their own heads. Suddenly ze realized that they might be mocking hir, so ze coughed sharply. “Do you understand?”

“Can Dwemer love?” Asked the second, in a voice barely above a whisper.

“... I think so. I think you can. I don’t see why you couldn’t. You said you love that Dachuur person, right?”

“How will we know when we’re in love?”

“When you look at someone and want them to be safe, and want them in your arms.” Ze laughed, stiffly. “Try taking that Dachuur in your arms. Kiss his lips. See if you don’t feel your heart soar away like a bird. You’ll get executed for such a blasphemy if they catch you, but if you’re in love, you’ll understand that one kiss is well worth dying or.”

He was looking away; the Provisioner, too, had his eyes averted, his finger against his lips and his eyes distant. Only the third still watched hir with polite interest.

“You said you were married?” Asked the third, timidly, after a moment.

“I told you, I shan’t speak of that. I...” hir words died in hir throat as a sound reached hir ears. It was the unmistakable sound of Bthuand rising in the other room, the loud yawn and the clunk of the door-mechanisms which would open the path between study and sleeping-chambers. “You have to go!”

“Pardon us, teacher?”

“Go, go, Bthuand’s waking up! Behind those shelves-- hurry!”

The three of them made a mad dash for the shelves ze'd indicated. Vehk jumped off of the desk, scrambling to shove the gifts they’d brought out of sight-- a moment later the door to Bthuand’s private chambers swung open, and the Architect exited, still clad in his sleeping-robes and blinking sleep from his eyes. “Young Vel?”

“Lord Bthuand! You wake so early!”

“As do you… why are you not in bed?”

“Forgive me, I had a nightmare and it woke me.”

“I heard voices.”

“Yes, I was speaking to myself. Hearing my own voice helps soothe me after the night-terrors sometimes. Forgive me for troubling your slumber.”

The Architect peered at hir, his eyes disappearing entirely into the shadows of his bushy brows in the dim lighting. “... You lie to me. Why?”

“I don’t lie, I walk only the path of Truth, even at this early hour. Please, I-- I’m still upset, I don’t wish to be troubled by this.”

“Will you tell me what you dreamed of?”

“The past. I hate it. I won’t speak of it. Forgive me.” Vehk sunk into a deep bow, deliberately letting a tremor go through hir body.

Hir act seemed to pacify the Architect, and he made what might have passed for a sympathetic noise. “Very well. Return to bed, Vel, and use Logic to banish the fear of the night. There is nothing to fear in the realm of sleep.”

“Yes, yes, Logic guide my hand and still my heart. Thank you, Lord Architect.”

“Goodnight, Vel.” With that Bthuand, yawning still, returned to his chambers. Vehk let out a sigh of relief and slumped back against the desk. Ze glanced over hir shoulder, ready to give the word-- but hir students had already disappeared, vanishing as abruptly as they’d come to hir.

They had given hir gifts; when Bthuand had awoken ze’d shoved them hastily into a compartment of the desk. Now ze sat down and switched on the light above the desk, before carefully laying the gifts out before hir, one by one. The quill was so slender that ze feared ze’d break it, made of a faceted glass rod inlaid with hair-thin bones; the ink a cobalt as deep and blue as the depths of the sky on a summer day. The paper was the texture of cloth under hir fingers, the color of cream and scented sweetly of the oils which Dwemer used to bind their parchment. Ze placed each gift before hir and spent several minutes examining them with every sense, moving them about in hir fingers and admiring them with hir eyes.

They wanted hir to write poetry. Ze’d never tried hir hand at the craft, and deep down ze doubted whether Dwemeris could produce something even close to lyrical. And yet ideas buzzed about hir head, and ze wondered…

Ze dipped the quill in ink and pressed its nib to the creamy paper, and found that the words flowed from the tip as easily as water: _'Love is used not only as a constituent in moods and affairs, but also as the raw material from which relationships produce hour-later exasperations, regrettably fashioned restrictions, riddles laced with affections known only to the loving couple, and looks that linger too long…’_

 

_***_

 

“So how long has this been going on?”

“At least months. Probably years. Possibly since I left Ald Sotha. I don’t know.”

“And how in the dark are we? How little do we know?”

“It looks like it’s been intercepting all our correspondence. To speak frankly, there could be an army marching towards us and we wouldn’t know it until it was in sight.”

“Oh, Gods…”

It was late at night-- the Throne Room lit with only a single lantern. Almalexia’s face seemed the color of ash in the faltering light, and she leaned over the map on the table, looking on the cusp of illness.

“Did you catch the scamp?” She asked, with some difficulty.

“No.” Sotha Sil replied. “I’ve ordered the Shouts to apprehend it at all cost, but it’s clever. Very clever.”

“So who could have done this? Who, Sil?”

He didn’t answer and she shuddered.

“Chemua.” She murmured to herself. “It must be Chemua. That man was a schemer, gifted at manipulation, and this… this is something else. Oh, this is cunning, this has him written all over it.”

“Why would Chemua intercept my letters from Ald Sotha? It can’t be him, Ayem.”

“I don’t know. Who else could it be? Perhaps he aligned your Father to him-- he has a Shout that can do that, you know, he sways people to his side. Oh, Gods, Sil, if he’s brought an army down from Ebonheart…”

“We don’t know that he’s taken Ebonheart. Wait until we hear from House Dres before drawing these conclusions. This may seem bad, but we’ll--”

“Serjo?” The door had swung open. In the torchlight Mora Valyn’s aged features looked like some sort of evil mask, stark and jarring against the darkness beyond. “Khizumet’e has arrived.”

Almalexia almost jumped, whirling to face him. “Show him in, quickly!”

Immediately the Grandmaster of House Dres swept in. “Mequeen.” He greeted Almalexia immediately, ignoring Sotha Sil. “By the Three, it’s good to see you, I thought you’d severed ties with us.”

“What? No, never, I’d never!”

“We received the letter from you, bearing Mournhold’s symbol and saying so-- I knew something wasn't right here. What’s happened?”

“A scamp.” Sotha Sil answered grimly. “It’s been intercepting our correspondence. Feeding us false information, withholding information… and impersonating us, if you truly did receive such a letter.”

“So you know nothing? You’ve received none of my messages?”

“None. Not one.” Almalexia was trembling. “Khizu, what’s happened?”

Khizumet’e turned away from them, crossing to the vast window of the Throne-Room. “... Ebonheart has fallen.” He finally answered, with grief. “We lost the city, one month ago. Chemua attacked from the ocean… he’d commandeered a fleet of Telvanni pirates. He had an army. We had no choice but to flee.”

Almalexia let out a small sob and Sotha Sil moved to her automatically.

“Their conquest in Skyrim has ground to a halt, or so I hear.” Khizumet’e continued. “So he means to reconquer Deshaan. He’s fought as far down as the Dwemer stronghold of Mzithumz. My spies believe he plans to use it as a base from which to attack… Oh, by Azura, to think that I thought you knew! I’ve failed you, my Hortator, forgive me and mine.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s… damn him!” She jerked away from Sotha Sil. “Telvanni pirates, you say? Are you sure they were Telvanni?”

“I’m not sure, they might have been others. I didn’t stop to ask, I was busy watching my House-kin be massacred, you see.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Where is he now?”

“We’re unsure, he’s very good at hiding his movements. Last we heard he was camped in Mzithumz, preparing to strike at the city proper.”

“How long do we have?”

“I can’t say. He’s hidden his tracks well and we’ve no spies... A week or two, perhaps.”

“Lady Almalexia.” Mora Valyn, hovering at the door, interrupted. “We cannot let him reach the city. Thousands will die. Our only hope lies in meeting him on the field.”

“What field, Valyn! He’ll blight all Deshaan if we meet him in battle.”

“Then we storm Mzithumz. Our race have warred against the Dwemer since the dawn of time, we know the field far better than he. We can corner him and crush him within the halls.”

“Storm a Dwemer stronghold? Are you mad? We--”

She fell silent, for her gaze had locked with Sotha Sil’s. He said nothing, but he didn’t need to; she drew in a long breath and closed her eyes, running a hand through her hair.

“... Seht.” she finally began. “Do you know what components you need?”

“I’ve a vague idea.”

“And if we take Mzithumz? Can you do it?”

“I think so. But I’ll need time. Give me a week.”

“I’m sorry to delay you from returning to Ald Sotha, but I need you here. You swore an oath to me that you’d stay and I hold you by it now. Valyn,” she turned to her commander. “Ready the Shouts. We march for Mzithumz in a week’s time.”

“My Queen.”

“Khizu, will you march with us?”

The Grandmaster kept his back turned to them, and answered without emotion. “I cannot. The defeat at Ebonheart crippled my House, we need time to mend our forces.”

“Then it’s decided.” Sotha Sil murmured. “We will storm Mzithumz alone.”

Beyond the window, against a vast expanse of stars, the two moons spiraled ever-closer to the moment of eclipse. That night each one of them could have sworn that, in the distance, they heard the sound of laughter.

 

* * *

    
    _'Love is used not only as a constituent in moods and affairs, but also as the raw material from which relationships produce hour-later exasperations, regrettably fashioned restrictions, riddles laced with affections known only to the loving couple, and looks that linger too long._
    _Love is also an often-used ingredient in some transparent verbal and nonverbal transactions where, eventually, it can sometimes be converted to a variety of true devotions, some of which yield tough, insoluble and infusible unions. In its basic form, love supplies approximately thirteen draughts of all energy that is derived from relationships. Its role and value in society at large are controversial.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay! I've recently started University, and it's sapped my time for writing by a lot. Don't worry, I don't plan to give up on this fic, but updates might come a little slower from now on. 
> 
> I also want to take this moment to thank, very sincerely and with all my heart, everyone who's left positive comments on this fic. Even a couple of sentences never fail to make my day. Thank you so much for giving your time to reading this fic!


	8. VII, Part One

_1E413, Frostfall._

 

* * *

 

 

There’s something marvelous about the power of words; a well-formed sentence can alter the very fabric of reality itself.

Vehk had spent hir whole life at the mercy of words. They had lifted hir to the heavens when pouring from the lips of a dear friend, and literally lifted hir to the heavens when they came from a Nord’s mighty thu’um. They had broken hir heart and turned hir world on its head; they had taken Voryn Dagoth’s life and ripped asunder many others, leaving irreparable damage in the wake of so few syllables.

For most of hir life Vehk had been powerless, with not a weapon at hir disposal save hir spear. But now, trapped within the fortress of hir enemies, ze’d come to realize that the power of words was immeasurable and vast, opening to hir a world of opportunity where once there had only been fear. How wonderful, how moving, how deadly was a single sentence! What delightful implications could be wrought from an artfully articulated quote! Like a key the mere power of hir words had opened to hir a universe to rule, a mortal demain where ze might influence the very destiny of the world with a single turn of phrase. Ze was the King, hir right to rule hir silver tongue, and every mer with eyes to read and ears to listen was a pawn at the mercy of hir sweetest speech.

Vehk the poet, Vehk the _God._ If only Vehk had been able to anticipate what glory hir poetry would bring hir! It had only been two weeks since ze first told the Dwemer of love, but like skooma in a brothel, addiction to hir poetry had spread uncontrollably. Nearly every night now ze had visitors, more and more curious dwarves arriving like pilgrims and criminals, asking for hir to dispense upon them that most forbidden secret of tender emotion. With Dwemeri efficiency they’d quickly organized a meeting-time, an hour in which all interested could gather in a cramped storage room to listen with rapture as Vehk told them of the world above. Ze improved hir craft quickly, learning with uncanny speed what aroused the most excitement in the dwarves-- they seemed to enjoy hir prose most when it was mixed with whatever scientific-sounding nonsense ze felt compelled to add that day.

Not that ze fabricated hir own whims entirely: in speech ze remained sincere and passionate, recounting all sorts of heart-wrenching scenes with a raw feeling nigh unheard of beneath the ground, often to the result of tears or gasps from all attending. It was only in writing that ze learned to master that particular brand of nonsensical sensibility which so excited the Dwemer. Hir works flew from hir hands the moment ze finished them, passed about Mzithumz with the furtive secrecy ze’d once watched drugs exchanged on the streets. _A Letter From The Future_ was so wildly successful that hir theories were the sole topic of debate among those who partook of it for days, _What An Egg Taught Me_ brought about an epidemic of weeping which very nearly saw their cover blown, and hir simplest work, _Finale_ , a hypothetical piece about belief, found several Dwemer circulating the rumour that ze’d made hirself wiser than even the High Craftlord himself. No matter what emotions ze wrote of the Dwemer never failed to adore it.

And with this unanimous devotion came odd sensations until now unfamiliar to hir: pride, satisfaction, fulfilment, self-certainty, elation. Ze was _good_ at writing, and even if not good at it they adored hir all the same. This outpouring of adoration for hir and hir works was like a drug to hir, and ze found hirself wandering about in a sense of smug euphoria, ecstatic in the knowledge that ze was good at something, and beloved for it.

Of course, hir illegal poetry came with more material benefits, too. A half-drained bottle of Flin rested by hir hand, smuggled in by one of hir devotees, and its powerfully intoxicating effect helped lubricate the flow of authorship from hir delicate glass quill. Currently ze was attempting to pen a picture of hir first taste of war, exploring the ways in which passion and violence so dramatically intermingled. Of course, in the memory ze was drawing from ze’d been blind and attempting to solicit sex from a stranger; but truth came secondary to emotion in hir work, and ze suspected that it even titillated the Dwemer to read something as deliciously forbidden as an exaggeration, or a lie. So ze didn’t hesitate to turn what had been a blind charge through the dark into a riveting trial of daring and fear, the story of a young Netchiman’s widow flying through invader’s carnage to rescue hir betrothed from a flurry of death.

_'You can hear my words, so run away--_   
_Run, my love, o’er the mountain-stones_   
_Let my chest’s shed sanguine guide your way;_   
_My sundered heart for you beats on its own.’_

Ze paused, then, chewing on the nail of a finger. Would using a color to mean blood parse in Dwemeris? Dwemer were terribly prone to taking things literally, but ze wondered whether the confusion of that turn of phrase might simply add to the mystery of it all-- dwarves, ze found, enjoyed a work best when they felt that it was slightly beyond their understanding, as if the author were speaking from a place of profound knowledge unfathomable to them. In that case it might be best to leave the metaphor, but then ze’d have to continue it somehow, make more references to the colour red in lieu of blood. Knowing the Dwemer, they would take it to be a metaphor for something absurd, like immortality-- but again, that simply befuddled the piece, which would make it wildly popular with hir audience. Keep the metaphor, then…

Ze’d been writing for several hours, Vehk realized-- hir body was tense and sore from lying so still for so long. With a long groan ze peeled hirself off of the floor and stretched, carefully easing the tension from hir aching muscles. By hir estimate it was somewhere in the middle of Second Shift-- Bthuand would be off consulting with engineers and architects, then, meaning ze had the study to hirself. But ze’d had enough of solitude for the day; ze slipped out of hir ‘cage’ and walked to the cupboard where Bthuand stored his servants’ robes. More confident among the stronghold now, ze only bothered with the over-robe-- draping its gold-embroidered mantle over hir shoulders, tying the sash about hir waist. It was far too large for hir, and slid down one shoulder; the effect was displeasing for how distinctly un-Dwemer it made hir look, not to mention how jarringly feminine, beardless and with hir hair having grown so long. Ze paused to tie hir overgrown locks behind hir head in a knot and, slightly happier with hir appearance, set out to find a way to occupy hirself.

Fortunately ze didn’t have to look far for entertainment. Standing post at the entrance to the spider-forge was the dwarf known as Dachuur, and by his side his faithful dark-eyed friend, one of Vehk’s first disciples, whose name Vehk now knew to be Anzthand. Anzthand’s head was bowed as he read dutifully from some heavy tome, and for a moment Vehk wondered whether they were standing a little closer together than they should be.

“... Which yields five stanzas of information in all. The cube is formatted so that one stanza is stored in each wall, with the interfacing wall left free…” he trailed off as Vehk drew closer. “Oh. It’s you.”

“It’s me!” Vehk replied, grinning (perhaps ze was a little drunk still). “How are you? The both of you, I mean? How are you feeling, what emotions are you enjoying today?”

“Shh.” Dachuur answered succinctly. Dachuur, it seemed, was not one for extensive conversation.

“Do watch your tongue, Teacher.” Anzthand agreed, frowning. “We are just outside the spider-forges, and those engineers are prudent.”

“Pch. Engineers. Even engineers are prone to feeling, they feel great love for the act of creation. I guess it must be like sex to them-- creation is rather wonderful, isn’t it!” Vehk slumped against the wall with a happy little hum. “I’ve been creating poetry… nonstop, actually. I’ve never felt so good. To write and make others feel with that writing, it’s a wonderful thing. I think I’m addicted.”

“He’s very eccentric.” observed Dachuur.

That made Vehk laugh again, unable to help hirself. “I’m a Chimer, I’m meant to be. I’m enjoying every emotion known to mortals and then some. I’m endlessly happy, right now-- have you ever tried flin, you Dwemer? It’s an intoxicant.”

“Intoxicants are explicitly forbidden. How did you come across any?”

“One of my students brought it as a gift! Some petty Warrior from the scouting unit, apparently they caught a caravan or something-- did you know I was a caravaneer? For almost twenty-four hours, in fact! I’m writing a poem about it.”

“Shh.” repeated Dachuur. His prudence only made the intoxicated Chimer giggle, pressing hir hand to hir mouth to stifle the gleeful sound. Both dwarves were rather unamused by hir amusement, ze thought, but ze couldn’t help but feel giddy around them-- it was good to be in the company of those ze trusted.

“Say,” ze began brightly, “What make you of this verse? _Let my chest’s shed sanguine guide the way_. Does that make sense to you? It sounds better in Aldmeris but I translated it as best I could.”

“Sanguine? Is that not the name of one of your Daedric lords?” Anzthand asked, frowning. “Is it a poem about him?”

“No, no, it’s-- in Aldmeris it means red, too, and blood. Does it not mean that in Dwemeris? Damn! I’ll have to change it.”

“Perhaps we could be taught to glean understanding from this usage about it. What’s the next verse?”

“ _For you my sundered heart beats alone._ Something like that. I don’t remember, don’t ask me!”

Anzthand made to make comment on the verse, but before he could speak his companion blurted out, quite frantically: “You can’t write that!”

Both Vehk and the other Dwemer seemed rather surprised by this development. An awkward silence fell between the three, lasting until Anzthand delicately asked the obvious question: “Why?”

“The sundered heart is a topic forbidden from discussion but all by the highest Tonal Architects.” Dachuur insisted, blushing. “That lesser creatures such as we should even know the phrase is most profound blasphemy.”

“Then how do you know it?” Vehk cocked an eyebrow.

“I overheard the Tonal Architect mention it by accident. He in his Wisdom noticed my transgression and made me swear an oath on Truth to never reveal my overhearings to another soul. If you use that word in your poem they will learn of it and terminate me for breaking my oath… Oh.” His face suddenly went pale. “I’ve made a grievous error, haven’t I?”

Anzthand only clutched him by the arm. “Vel nor I will reveal nothing. I will not let them terminate you, I vow it on the Love I have for you, which Vel himself taught us of.”

“Anzthand, I fear for you, all this talk of Love. You tread a dangerous path.”

“Then why have you not rejected me? Why do our minds think as one, Dachuur?”

“Because I don’t desire to reject you, but even that I desire you is dangerous…”  

Vehk, rather uncomfortably, interrupted the two with a cough. “Anyway,” ze said, “I don’t know what a sundered heart is. It’s just a turn of phrase. In Aldmeris that word sunder is… it means to be cast out, you know? Like if you were to ruin something and make it become wrong, not right. Profane to you dwarves. To sunder is sort of like to make profane.”

“There you go again!” exclaimed Dachuur, vexed. “Copying the Architects!”

“I copied nothing! I make this up myself.” Vehk shot back. “I can’t help it if I’m smarter than they are.”

“And the blasphemy! Shh!”

“How’s it blasphemy to say they’re stupid? I’m telling the Truth!”

“Do not ascribe such filthy lies to Truth, blasphemer!”

They were so absorbed in their petty little argument that they didn’t notice the forge beyond the door turn silent. Nor did they notice the change of atmosphere, the palatable altering of everything, the sudden presence of a soundless song. They didn’t notice the dimming of the lights, the way reality seemed to shudder at the presence of some unwelcome force, until the door to the forge swept open and the sound was sucked from the room.

One moment they’d been bickering; the next the door was open and Anzthand had dragged them both to the ground. Vehk’s head collided painfully with the floor, but ze stifled a cry, instinctively knowing that to speak would be to put hirself in grave danger. To either side of hir the dwarves were prostrating, heads to the ground-- ze copied their pose, kneeling and placing hir face close to the floor, but ze could not help but tilt hir head, trying to get a look at whatever had caused such an impact with their mere presence.

It was a dwarf. It had to be a dwarf. It couldn’t be anything else, and yet it was everything else. It was tall, clothed in robes of colour indescribable, its beard twisted into shapes that defied geometric sensibility, its posture so light it seemed to inhabit this plane only by its own good grace. Not androgynous, not even genderless, but so unlike any mortal that gender seemed an irrelevant and base concept to apply to such a holy being. And its eyes-- its face was turned to Bthuand, who seemed a mere child in its shadow, but as they passed it turned its eyes to Vehk-- clear eyes, eyes deep as Oblivion, vast as Aetherius, knowing as a God, discerning as a mortal. Those all-encompassing eyes met Vehk’s and then they were gone, their owner having followed Bthuand into the study beyond, and Vehk was left numb, immediately sobered, fixed to the floor with hir gaze going nowhere and the whole of hir being frozen in frightened awe.

“Who… what was that?” Asked a voice-- hir own voice, ze realized, quiet and trembling.

“That,” whispered Dachuur, “Was High Craftlord Kagrenac. And we are doomed.”

 

***

  


Kagrenac, as it turned out, was the worst thing that could have happened to Mzithumz.

Within hours of his arrival to the humble stronghold, everything which had come to make Vehk’s life bearable in recent months was stolen from under hir feet. The Dwemer of Mzithumz were on their best behavior for the arrival of such an esteemed guest; as such, there was no more poetry, no more secret gatherings, no more admirers appearing at hir doorstep with gifts and words of praise. Ze was left alone, and worse, completely ignored.

And if it wasn’t enough that hir fans had been stolen, Kagrenac had gone and taken hir freedom as well! Bthuand, sheepish in the face of such supreme authority, had taken to locking Vehk in hir glass cage night and day. No longer was ze allowed to peruse the study or wander the stronghold, for Bthuand didn’t wish to face the High Craftlord’s displeasure regarding his own unapproved experiments. It was actually unknown to Vehk whether Kagrenac even knew of hir existence. Something told hir that he knew, knew with terrifying precision; the memory of his glare burned hot in the back of hir mind, and those piercing eyes seemed to be still rifling through hir innermost secrets long after the Craftlord himself had moved on. At any rate, Vehk knew enough of the Dwemer to know that Bthuand would be under heavy scrutiny for something as audacious as keeping a Chimer in his private quarters; thus, for the sake of propriety, ze was locked in hir glass tomb for the foreseeable future.

It had been, in fact, forty-eight hours by now since ze’d first been banished to hir cage. Fourty-eight hours. Six lots of eight-hour shifts. Six, a holy number, eight, a holy number, and the predicament itself as unholy and hateful as anything ze could imagine. The years of captivity before this hadn’t been half as torturous, for in those dark days ze hadn’t known anything of the sweet freedom and admiration for which ze’d grown a healthy appetite. Now that ze had a poet’s touch how could ze hope to go back to a simple shelf-piece? Besides, Bthuand had at least tutored hir to keep hir occupied in the years prior. Now the Architect didn’t so much as look at hir, and the neglect-- the neglect of hir captor, the neglect of hir former admirers and students, the neglect of hir own hands (for he’d confiscated hir paper!), drove hir to fits of frustrated restlessness, such unhappy dissatisfaction that ze felt as if ze’d lose hir mind.

And ze’d run out of flin. Without flin, without distraction, nightmares fluttered about hir head like months. Unbearable.

A sharp buzzer marked the conclusion of sleeping shift and the beginning of working shift. Vehk jumped at the sound-- ze’d been resting against the side of the cage, half-asleep. The buzzer ended momentarily, and was replaced by a soft _hum_ as somewhere deep in the stronghold a steam-turbine spun to life and pumped energy to the lights of the complex. Within moments everything was illuminated, bathed in harsh blue. Ze’d hoped that the coming of the waking shift might serve to ease the nightmares; instead ze found hirself simply more restless.

At least, ze thought bitterly, ze wasn’t the only one suffering under Kagrenac’s esteemed presence. Ze watched with wry amusement as the doors to Bthuand’s chambers clattered open and the Architect emerged. He obviously hadn’t slept that night, for he was still fully-clothed with his beard falling out of its braids. Vehk watched him pace about the study, frantically snatching papers and writing letters without breaking stride.

“Busy morning, master?” Ze called out. Bthuand didn’t dignify hir with a reply.

The door to the study hissed open and immediately the morning’s mechanical couriers scuttled in-- spiders bearing notes, samples from the forges, messages from all corners of the stronghold which needed the Architect’s attention. He directed them to their appropriate corners without so much as sparing a glance, still frantically scribbling memos, trying to sort through what seemed an inappropriate amount of information for even one Dwemer. Vehk found hirself smiling when ze caught a ream of paper beginning to slip out of his arms, and outright laughed when the whole precarious stack slid out of his hands in an avalanche of notes.

“Och-- By the love of Logic!” Bthuand cried. The Architect, more openly distressed than any proper Dwemer should be, turned to Vehk, flustered. “Stop that!”

“Do you need help, master?” Vehk asked innocently. “Perhaps I could bend over and serve as your writing-desk!”

“No, no, that would be horribly inefficient! Oh-- fine!” Bthuand barked an order and to Vehk’s surprise the door to hir cage slid open. “Grab that note from the spider by the door and read to me what it says. Now, hastily!”

Vehk knew better by now than to question a turn of good luck. Ze darted from the cage and snatched the note immediately from said spider, then straightened up and read what it said aloud. “Most Highly Esteemed Chief Tonal Architect of Mzithumz, whose Wisdom--”

“Skip the formalities, Vel! What does it say?”

“Um, hold on… it says, King Claimant Dumac understands the urgency of the situation, but nevertheless beseeches you not to act hastily, and while he respects in the utmost the enlightened wisdom of High Craftlord Kagrenac, he pleads you consider the Logic’s necessity of a stable… what’s this word?”

“‘Politics’ in Aldmeris, if memory serves.” Bthuand was still attempting, it seemed, to write three letters at once. “Go on, go on. What else has he said?”

“He says that-- that High Craftlord Kagrenac’s theory is unsubstantiated, and that risking so many valuable workers to the Sundered Heart is not worth opening the facility--”

“Give me that!” Abruptly Bthuand had dropped his papers again, in favor of rushing to Vehk and snatching the letter from hir hands.

Vehk jerked away, raising hir hands defensively. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry-- you told me to read it!”

“I didn’t know that ignoramus would discuss such sensitive information. By the sixteen golden tones, Dumac, you fool! That idiot upstart will be the death of me!”

“Who’s Dumac? What’s a sundered heart?”

“Confidential! Private! It’s best you didn’t know.”

“Why shouldn’t I know? Who am I going to tell? You won’t even let me out of my cage! Who could I possibly tell anything?”

Bthuand didn’t answer, and hir frustration came to a sudden head. Ze lunged forwards, seizing Bthuand by the sleeve and jerking hard, so that the papers fell from his grasp, “Bthuand!” ze cried, “This is illogical! Who could I possibly tell? You won’t even let me roam!”

“Och-- Outsiders, or--”

“Nonsense! I’m never going to go free, am I? You’re never going to let me see the surface again, are you? The rest of my life in this stupid glass cage-- please, I beg you, tell me, who could I possibly tell?”

Bthuand, stunned, stared at hir. “... Nobody.” he finally uttered. “You could tell nobody.”

It was the condemnation ze’d been waiting for, the knowledge that the rest of hir life would be spent alone in the study, as some curio object. Vehk clutched his sleeve still but hir shoulders slumped. “Then why keep secrets?” ze asked weakly. “If I’m just… You wouldn’t keep secrets from your tuning-fork, or your desk, and I’m no more than they, am I? I’m going to die alone down here and your secrets will die with me, at least have the decency to give me a few before I go.”

Bthuand must have been at his wits end, for he didn’t scold hir for hir outburst. He didn’t react at all, in fact, except to release a long sigh, and frown as if in sadness. “Very well, Vel.” he said softly, prising hir hands from his sleeve. “There, it seems that spider has arrived with our breakfast sustenance. Go fetch it, we’ll sit down and nourish ourselves and we may talk. No more of this emotion, from you or I. Understand?”

Vehk obeyed wordlessly, collecting the pitcher of nutrient gruel from the waiting spider, as Bthuand arranged a small space for them to eat, two chairs in front of the desk which Vehk had so often used to write hir illegal poetry. He placed down mugs and Vehk poured out the gruel, refusing to look at him as ze did-- there were tears pricking at hir eyes and a sudden helplessness had come over hir, though ze was loathe to show the Architect any sign of weakness.

Once both mugs were full ze took hir seat, and the Architect sat opposite hir, and a heavy silence descended between them.

“... So who’s Dumac?” Vehk finally asked.

Bthuand took a long drink of his gruel. “Dumac,” he began, “Is a young Dwemer who means to make himself king.”

“Dwemer have kings?”

“In a matter of speaking.” He scoffed. “Most of us are overwhelmingly uninterested in politics… politics are base, unenlightened, petty and trivial and overall pointless. We leave the issue to those rare few who do have a knack for it. And Dumac-- Dumac has more than a knack for it. He’s ambitious, outgoing, honest and steadfast. In anyone else these would be grave faults, but Dumac wields them like weapons. His sincerity is matched only by his forcefulness. He means to rule, and does not intended to fail in his goals.”

“He craves power?”

“Ah… see, this is the unusual thing. While normally his actions would be unacceptable, he pursues his goals in the most faithfully Dwemer way he can. He’s analysed the situation and seen that he would be best suited to ruling it, so he goes about attempting to put himself in the most Logical position… As the ruler.”

Vehk considered this, sipping at hir gruel. “Do you want him to be king?”

“Want!” Bthuand snorted. “To want is base. To desire is unenlightened.”

“Fine, ugh. Does Logic tell you he should be king?”

“Now… that is the question.” Bthuand fell silent, drinking his own gruel with quiet and studious focus. Vehk watched him carefully, waiting for some betrayal of emotion.

“What’s the answer, then?” ze asked.

Bthuand shook his head. “Nobody is certain. And High Craftlord Kagrenac himself has become involved with it, so that things have grown entirely complex. It is a difficult time.”

“Well, what does Kagrenac think?”

“Ha! The naivety of Chimer. Do you believe that someone as esteemed as High Craftlord Kagrenac can be comprehended by his subordinates?”  

“Sure he can. Why not?”

“That--” Bthuand paused, sighed, and shook his head. “You, Chimer, are as incomprehensible to me as he is. So perhaps you stand a better chance than I. High Kagrenac sees the re-establishment of our mainland colonies to be foolish and wasteful. He wants to draw our forces back to our extensive underground Vvardenfell colonies, and pursue our research on the homeland. Kagrenac, unlike Dumac, sees little point in struggling with the other races.”

Vehk frowned. “So Dumac wants war.”

“Dumac still believes that there is prosperity to be gained through war. A while ago he rallied us and laid siege to the passes which connect west with east, hoping to take advantage of the conflict it would create between Northmen and Chimer. An unexpected alliance between the two groups caused his plans to fail.. hence his current troubles. The numbers loyal to him have dwindled, especially now that Kagrenac is urging a return to our roots.”

“But he doesn’t want to go back to Vvardenfell. Why?”

“Ah…,” Bthuand hesitated. “That would be the Sundered Heart. He fears it, and rightfully so.”

“And the Sundered Heart is…?”

“An affliction that strikes Dwemer who spend too long in the proximity of Dagoth Ur. Dagoth’s Devil. That evil mountain in the heart of Vvardenfell. We have historically avoided its slopes, for those who dwell within it for an extended period of time are known to fall gravely ill. They become mindless, mutated, hostile and tormented by madness. Their souls, in a sense, are made profane… this is the Sundered Heart which Dumac so fears.”

The description brought to Vehk’s mind images of bulbous hulking Ogrim, and nameless shapeless creatures with slavering jaws. Ze shuddered and drank of hir gruel, trying to expel the memories from hir mind.

“Kagrenac,” Bthuand continued, “has taken an interest in the Sundered Heart. He believes it’s indicative of deeper potential beneath the mountain, and that discovering the source is of fundamental importance. He is not one for politics, but recently he’s been visiting those strongholds Dumac has reopened, encouraging us to close down and return to our clan-homes on Vvardenfell. That’s why he’s come to Mzithumz now. He’s determining what parts of the stronghold are worth bringing to Vvardenfell.”

“And those that aren’t worth bringing?”

“Will be abandoned, of course.”

“And if you can’t abandon them…?”

“Hm? Well… they’ll be terminated, of course.”

Bthuand, pausing his explanations, took a long drink of gruel; he seemed not to notice the effect that his words had on Vehk.

Conclusions had already formed in hir mind, setting hir hands trembling. Heart racing, ze put hir mug down, and asked, hir voice thin with fear, “Am I a thing to be abandoned?”

“Oh?” Bthuand hesitated. “Well, that’s… I haven’t broached the matter with him, but he in his infinite wisdom will surely… ah.”

The Architect trailed off, for Vehk had gotten to hir feet, and was backing away slowly. “... Vel? Is something the matter?”

“If I can’t go with you,” Vehk whispered, “And I can’t go back to the surface. What will you do with me?”

“Vel…”

“You’re going to terminate me, aren’t you?”

“I… Logic dictates…”

“Oh, the Three, oh, Gods, you are!” Vehk backed away, hir hands raised defensively, and ze looked around for a weapon with which to defend hirself. Ze wished that ze had Milk Finger, that ze had anything, even the tuning fork ze’d stolen--

“Vel! Calm yourself!” Bthuand chided hir. He stood and approached hir, speaking firmly, “It does not do to be so upset. Logic deems your life has no purpose, and your death will not be detrimental to anyone. Do not object to it!”

“No, no, no--”

“Listen. Stop backing away. The decision has not yet been made--”

“Don’t touch me!”

Hir panic reached a height, and ze spun on foot, surging towards the door. It swung open with a _hiss_ \--

And ze collided with a tall, firm shape, robed in gold and metal.

Ze froze, at once overwhelmed with some terrifying presence. Hir face was pressed to a mesh of fine chains and soft velvet, a coil of intricately-braided hair tickled hir nose. Behind hir ze heard Bthuand gasp in horror and fall to his knees.

“... A visitor, Bthuand?” Kagrenac asked.

Vehk pulled back and looked up at the High Tonal Architect. Ze found that ze couldn’t even utter a word in hir defence, for the Architect was looking down at hir, his expression unreadable, lips pressed into a thin line and wise eyes peering calmly from dark bronze skin.

“Forgive me, High Craftlord,” Bthuand began weakly, “This is… I meant to inform you…”

“I already knew, Bthuand.” Kagrenac replied.

“Highly irregular, I know, but I’ve an explanation--”

“Bthuand, I know of your curios already. Banish your fear, it makes mockery of us all.”

The High Craftlord’s voice seemed both a command and some sort of spell. At the words ‘banish your fear’ Vehk found hirself roused into action, and ze stepped backwards, looking for an avenue of escape--

“You. Chimer.”

“... Sera.” Vehk croaked.

Kagrenac regarded hir for several long moments, the weight of his gaze freezing Vehk in place.

Then he did the unthinkable-- he touched Vehk gently on the shoulder. “I wish to speak to you.” he said softly. “Alone. Will you grant me my desire, now that I’ve expressed it?”  

Behind hir Bthuand gasped. “High Craftlord, that word--”

“Is a word you are not yet wise enough to understand, but I am, as is this Chimer. Leave us, Bthuand, I would use your study alone.”

“... High Craftlord.” And Vehk watched in awe as Bthuand bowed and exited his study.

“Now,” said Kagrenac, and Vehk found hirself once again overwhelmed with terror and awe, though the fear of death had left immediately, and something altogether more profound taken its place. “Vel. Vehk. Shall we?”

 

***

 

There was no sense in this, no logic, no reason, no method, no rhythm. Sotha Sil felt as if he’d been at it for days and yet his clocked marked only hours. No wonder, for it was tedious and frustrating, trying to work with a faulty machine: a machine robbed of its function, a machine with a higher purpose. A machine that was meant to be somewhere else, meant to be fixing something else, meant to be--

What was he doing here?

He cried out as the ebony slipped from his fingers and fell to the desk with a deafening clatter. Jumping from his chair he retreated, drawing his trembling hands to his chest. By the sinking light it was nearing dusk, and for a moment a shaft of Magnus’ glow had caused his desk to gleam red, the illusion bringing to mind an image of fire ripping over a Daedric shrine. It was mere imagination, but imagination was often more terrible than reality-- certainly more anxiety-inducing. And lately Sotha Sil had been a slave to anxiety, to the tormented fear which plagued his every waking moment, since he’d first discovered that dreaded scamp’s hovel.

_(Sehti, you must return, father… since our brother died, Ald Sotha…_ )

That ruined letter had thrown their world into chaos. Cruelest deception and manipulation; in a single foul stroke their world had been turned on its head and war had besieged them once more.

And now Sotha Sil was locked in his tower a million miles away from home, while Ald Sotha burned, destroyed, his brother dead, possibly Kaisa too…

What had he done?

Forty-eight hours. Six hours of sleep, eight hours spent with generals and battle-mages and centurion-dispatchers in frantic preparation for war. Thirty-four spent in his tower, trying with a scattered mind to complete that contraption which might give Almalexia the edge over her enemy. And yet no progress but for his own torment--

This was senseless. He rose from his desk and made for the door.

Beyond his tower the castle was a hive of activity. Assaulting a Dwemer stronghold, even one occupied by Nords, was no small task; as such all manner of preparations had to be made, and experts from every walk of life had been called in to assist in the arrangements. Sotha Sil passed by all manner of citizens: armorers and blacksmiths rushing about with metals and weapons; robed mages and scholars bearing armfuls of notes on Dwemer culture and technology; consultants and emissaries adorned in robes of Indoril, Dres and half a dozen minor Houses; apothecaries and farmers trying to arrange sale of potions and provisions; sell-swords and mercenaries looking to furnish their ranks in exchange for Mournhold coin; and what seemed like half the city besides, seizing the winds of opportunity with characteristic Chimer ambition. Thankfully most were strangers to Almalexia and her court, and so Sotha Sil went unrecognized and unaccosted as he made his way to the centre of the castle.

The Throne Room lay at the heart of the chaos. The room was currently packed to the brim, filled with Shouts, guards and citizens each trying to fight their way to the centre, where Almalexia stood at the head of a table with her generals. The Queen’s tendency to consider each of her soldiers a friend, it seemed, had come back to bite her-- Nords were stubborn, Chimer were arrogant, and around half her guard force was currently competing to get the ear of their leader with their own suggestions and concerns. Almalexia was doing her best to address the crowd, but her magnanimity was quickly being overwhelmed.

Sotha Sil found himself reminded of his own days in Ald Sotha, when crowds of young cousins and House-kin would swarm over him with unbearable enthusiasm. So he decided to deal with this situation similarly: he cast a massive fireball at the roof.

A shocked silence descended over the crowd.

“Shame on you!” Sotha Sil said loudly. “Queen Almalexia is dealing with a most fearsome enemy, and yet you pester her like children begging for their mother! You ought to be ashamed! Were you trained to act with so little consideration?”

The Shouts stared at him, alarmed by the sudden scolding, but Almalexia took up from where he left off. “My battlemage is right.” she declared. “You will all be heard, but I demand respect! Return to the barracks. Commander Star-Sung will take your concerns until I can arrange audiences personally. Go!”

Some sheepish, some angry, the soldiers slowly made their way for the door. Sotha Sil pushed through them, ignoring their glares and curses until he reached Almalexia’s side. She wore armor, as befit a time of war, but her hair was disheveled and her face was flushed with stress. “Thank you.” she said, quietly enough that nobody else could hear it. “This is a mess, an absolute mess.”

“They’ve never been in battle.” Sotha Sil replied. “Nor have you.”

“I know that! But I have Mora Valyn, and Khizumet’e. And you.” She turned, watching as the last of her soldiers left the room. “Everything will be fine. It must be, right? Gods, I can’t believe this is happening…”

“It will be fine.” First Commander Mora Valyn promised from the other side of the table. He was one of the few who hadn’t left the room, along with Dres Khizumet’e and her shield-bearer.

“Will it, Valyn?” Almalexia snapped. “We still don’t have a solid plan. We march within days and nothing has been decided! Look,” she brandished her hand at the maps on the table, crude sketches of what Mzithumz might look like. “We know nothing about the stronghold we plan to assault, we can’t agree on even the basics of a plan. Do we enter by stealth or by force? Bring torches, or disable the generators and have our mages cast night-eyes upon us as we blind our opponent?”

“The latter.” Valyn said. “Spellcraft is our ally here. Nords are repulsed by magic, let us use it against them--”

“Chemua has his own mages.” Dres Khizumet’e pointed out. “He’s a Nord and needs be faced as a Nord is faced. Go in with full strength and attack head-on, mequeen, anything else is an invitation for failure.”

Almalexia, frustrated, slammed her fist on the table. “I do not want to lead my soldiers like guar to the slaughter! But I refuse to be caught in the dark with that monster. There must be another way…” she turned to Sotha Sil. “My friend, tell me you come with a suggestion.”

The hope in her expression was enough to give Sotha Sil pause, and add to the guilt which already gnawed at him. But his loyalty to his family outweighed the loyalty he had to his friend, and so he answered plainly. “I don’t, and in fact--”

“Damn! What of the contraption, have you completed it?”

“I haven’t, and I--”

“Then why do you speak to me now? I need that--”

“Almalexia, I’m leaving!”

That caught Almalexia off guard, and her eyes widened in surprise. “What...  do you mean?”

“I have to return to Ald Sotha.” Sil replied. “At once. I won’t be here for the battle.”

“You can’t.” she said quickly. “I forbid it. I need you here.”

“My family needs me more!”

“You _vowed_ to me you wouldn’t leave, Seht--”

“Almalexia, I beg this of you. This is the fate of my _House_. My family!”

“Am I not your family?”

“If you were my family, you would let me go to them!”

From the way she recoiled he knew that he’d hurt her, but he hastily continued. “Throughout your childhood, you spent every summer at Ald Sotha. My parents considered you a daughter, my siblings loved you like a sister and my House-kin saw you as one of our own. We never asked anything of you-- and now all those people who loved you could be dying, or dead, or even worse.”

“But Mournhold’s safety--”   

“Is as important to you as Ald Sotha’s is to me. If Mournhold lay in ruins I would never stop you from flying to its aid. Why doesn’t my home deserve the same, Ayem?”

Almalexia fell silent, moving her gaze from the maps to him, her face flushed with emotion.

“Queen Almalexia...,” Dres Khizumet’e interjected softly, moving to her side. “Let him go. A Chimer must love his House above all, it’s their purest call and cause. ”

“But I need him.” she replied weakly.  “I can’t face Chemua alone.”

“You won’t be alone. You’ll have an army at your back.”

“But who will look after my city?”.

“I will stay and mind it for you, if needs be.” Khizumet’e promised. “You aren’t alone.”

“Please, Almalexia.” Sotha Sil said desperately. “They’re my family.”

A tense moment-- and then Almalexia turned her back to him. “Fine,” she said curtly, her face hidden. “You have my blessings.”

He’d known her long enough to recognize how upset she was. However, her feelings had ceased to matter to him. Imagined visions of fire and ruin still danced behind his eyes: charred wood, twisting shrines, and buried deep in nightmares, the visions of the wreckage of Bal Fell.

“We charge in by force, then.” Almalexia had already moved on, it seemed, her gaze fixed once more on the maps before her, pointedly directed away from her once-trusted friend. “With as many soldiers as we can spare. We know not what to expect within, but we’re strong. Once we enter…”

Sensing that he was no longer welcome, Sotha Sil turned to leave-- but not before he caught the eye of Dres Khizumet’e, who stood by the Queen and watched him with a careful glare.

He tore himself away and left.

 

***

 

Vehk sat, motionless, observing as Kagrenac laid down two objects on the desk before hir. The first was a ream of paper which ze recognized as hir own poetry. The second was Milk Finger.

“Now, Vel.” Kagrenac began. “Or is it Vehk?”

“Vehk is fine.” ze mumbled, unwilling to look at the Architect.

“So you are Vehk. Who is Vel?”

“I’m Vel. And Vehk. Vel is… Vel for Veloth. And Vehk for Veloth too, I guess, but I didn’t know that before.”

“I see.” Kagrenac wasn’t looking at hir; his head was bowed and he examined Milk Finger with passing interest. “Are you Veloth?”

“No, that’s impossible.” Ze paused, then confessed, “He’s my ancestor.”

“‘Impossible’. A dirty word. Is it truly so impossible?”

“Veloth’s been dead for centuries.”

“Time is not linear.”

Vehk didn’t quite understand that, but ze found hirself unwilling to argue, and simply shrugged. “I guess so. What does it matter?”

“It matters because I’m trying to understand what you are.” Kagrenac lifted his head and looked at hir; his gaze seemed too intense for a mortal, piercing hir clean through. “Are you Vehk? A Netchiman’s Wife? Or something else entirely?”

“How-- How did you know about that?”

“I listened to your interrogation transcripts. You called yourself a Netchiman’s Wife.”

“She’s dead. She died when you used that… the… that.”

“But you remain.”

“I’m not her. I’m Vehk, I’m… an egg.”

This seemed to pique Kagrenac’s interest. “An egg?”

Vehk, embarrassed, waved hir hand. “Someone called me an egg. A Wise Woman, she said… that Vehk is an egg, an egg the Netchiman’s Wife carries, and one day that egg will hatch and I’ll become whole. I was a child.”

“Has the egg hatched, Vehk?”

“No, not yet…” ze trailed off, for Kagrenac’s gaze seemed too intense to bear. “I, um. Why does it matter?”

Kagrenac looked back down at Milk Finger, thoughtfully running a finger along the warped shaft. “She was called the Netchiman’s Wife. It stands to reason there is a Netchiman. Who was he?”

Vehk didn’t answer.

“Tell me, Vel.”

“He… I… I don’t know…”

“Is that Truth?”

“He was my… he was her… they married, so… I…”

Kagrenac looked at hir again, with that probing gaze, and ze hung hir head. “He was my father.” ze whispered. “I think. He only touched the Netchiman’s Wife. She was a girl. I’m not. I’m not her. That never happened to me. Only her. And she’s dead. I’m not. I’m Vehk.”

“I see.” Kagrenac’s voice was gentle, and ze shivered, revulsion tightening hir gut. A silence fell over the room, but Vehk dared not lift hir head, afraid that seeing the Architect’s all-knowing eyes would be too much for hir to bear.

“Who gave you this spear?” asked Kagrenac after a moment.

“The dreugh.”

“The… dreugh.”

“After I was thrown into the ocean I lived with the Dreugh Queen and her dreugh family. They raised me and taught me to hunt and how to breathe water. And they gave me Milk Finger.”

“You named your spear… Milk Finger?”

“It looked like a finger. And I like milk.”

Kagrenac didn’t answer, so ze peeked up, and was surprised to see that the Chief Architect appeared to be smiling. Ze blushed and sat upright. “I was a kid! Kids aren’t good at names! Why does it matter? I don’t understand why you’re trying to get out of this.”

“I’ve told you my intentions.” Kagrenac replied. He was no longer smiling, but his face didn’t seem entirely serious.

“Are you trying to decide whether to kill me?”

“Bthuand’s been using his tongue liberally, I see.”

“I told him it wasn’t Logical to hide anything. You won’t let me free. It’s not as if I could tell anyone. I’m not a spy.”

“Astute Logic,” Kagrenac replied, “But I disagree. You, Vel, are an exceptionally dangerous individual.”

Vehk found hirself at a loss for words at that, so Kagrenac continued his interview. “For how long did you live with the dreugh?”

“A few years, I’m not sure how long it was exactly. Seht told me that if I was truly Vehk I’d be about seven years old when he pulled me out of the ocean…”

“Seht?”

“That’s not his real name. I met him at Bal Fell. I tried to rob him but he wasn’t angry, he befriended me and took me to Ald Sotha because he thought I was _that_ Vehk…”

“That Vehk?”

Vehk waved hir hand, shrugged helplessly. “There’s a spell… prophecy, thing. Ayem ae Sehti ae Vehk. The Netchiman would tell his wife that when she was young. He read me this letter, from Ayem, I wish I could remember it more clearly. But I’d always… when it was hard for the Netchiman’s Wife, she told herself that Seht and Ayem would come for her, to save her and take her away somewhere that was safe.”

“A prophecy in Ehlnofex.” Kagrenac murmured. “Fascinating… and your Father told you that?”

“Yes, my-- no-- the Netchiman told his wife that.”

“Who is Ayem?”

Vehk hesitated. “I can’t say.”

“Why is that? Are they a friend of your father’s?”

“No! It’s not that, it’s just-- I don’t want you to think I’m a spy again.”

Kagrenac frowned. “You do not trust me.”

“Why should I?” Vehk replied. “You want to kill me.”

“You aren’t going to die.” Kagrenac said. He’d said it softly, as if it were a simple fact, but the matter-of-factness of the statement and the serious expression in his eyes gave Vehk the sudden jarring impression that he wasn’t just speaking of the possible termination.

“... Oh.” Vehk said, uncertainly. “That’s good.”

“It is good.” Kagrenac agreed. “Now, who’s Ayem?”

“Almalexia. The Queen of Mournhold. If she is still Queen. I’ve been underground, so I don’t know what’s happening with that.”

“A Queen?”

“She was the one who wrote the letter and told me the spell at first. Seht told me the story, that my mother died birthing me, but Almalexia was there and she claimed me as her own and looked after me for a while. Seht told me that she’d still want to meet me, but…” ze shrugged. “I don’t think she’d remember me. Or care. I’m certain she wouldn’t. I’m just…”   

“A Netchiman’s wife?”

“No, she’s dead now. I’m Vehk. I’m just Vehk.”

Kagrenac hummed a note, and the tone seemed to warm the air around them. “My condolences. Now, where did you go after Seht pulled you from the ocean?”

“Voryn Dagoth took me to Holomayan--” ze paused, catching Kagrenac’s expression, “You knew him?”

“I know Voryn Dagoth.” Kagrenac replied. “Continue.”

“He took me to Holomayan. I lived there a while, learning to be a priest of Azura.”

“Why did you leave?”

“They… accused me of worshiping Molag Bal, so I ran away. I planned to go to Mournhold and meet Ayem. But then I met Mephala and I worked for her as-- there’s no word for it in Dwemeris. I sold my body, I did sex in exchange for gold. I did that for six months until I got blinded and Mephala kicked me out.”

“The Daedra have been quite involved with your life, it would seem.”

“She’s not the real Mephala, she just calls herself Mephala. She’s just some Chimer.”

“Where did you go after that?”

“I tried to get to Mournhold again. I went with a caravan, but then we were attacked by Nords. I ran into a cave and ended up here… they tortured me, the Netchiman’s Wife died, then Bthuand took me. I’ve been here ever since.”

Kagrenac considered this all, watching Vehk closely. Once again ze was stricken by how perceptive those eyes of his were-- though ze’d only recounted the story of hir life, ze suspected that Kagrenac _understood_ these events, as clearly as if he’d been there to witness them. Vehk had never particularly believed that ze was alive for a reason; under Kagrenac’s scrutinizing stare, ze suddenly doubted hir own conclusions regarding hir importance. Kagrenac brought hir to doubt many things.

“I don’t see why you care about this.” Vehk said abruptly. “What do you want?”

“As I told you before, I’m trying to work out what you are.”

“Well, you heard me. This is my life. I’m not special. I’m just Vehk.”

“Nothing could be further from Truth, Vehk.” Kagrenac replied. “It’s clear to me now that someone has deemed you very, very important. It only remains to work out who.”

Of any answer Vehk could have expected, that wasn’t one of them. “That can’t be.” ze uttered, “How am I important?”

“There’s no such thing as coincidence.” Kagrenac said. “Every remarkable event that’s brought you to me has occurred for a reason. At first I suspected that one of the Daedra was overseeing you, keeping you alive, teaching you-- but for what purpose? You further no Daedric agenda that I can see.”

“I don’t serve the Daedra.” Vehk said hastily. “Just because my soul was sold to Molag Bal, doesn’t mean I serve him. I serve nobody!”

“That was not the question. The question is, who serves you?”

“Nobody serves me. Nobody’s ever done a thing for me. The only one who serves me is myself.”

“Now,” Kagrenac exhaled, his eyes glinting, “There’s a fascinating possibility.”

His gaze was too intense again, and Vehk faltered. “What possibility?”

“That you, yourself, are the God who keeps yourself alive.”

“I’m not a God.” ze said uncomfortably.

“Not yet. Time isn’t linear. In fact, it can be easily changed.”

Vehk fell silent, hir throat dry; Kagrenac turned away from hir, his gaze shifting to the poetry that sat on the desk. “You’re a poet.” he observed. “A writer. A crafter of events… and un-Truths. This one, for instance, tells of how you escaped a prison by convincing the guard you were a noble. But the situation escalates, and ends with you convincing the king that you are a God in order to win your freedom. Did any of this truly happen, Vehk?”

“Of course it didn’t.” ze laughed, uncertainly. “It’s just a story--”

“Is it? Do you not believe that the nature of reality might be changed by simply convincing the right people of your new truths?”

“It’s just a story! I haven’t convinced anyone that anything has happened to me, it just _happened._ ” Ze shuddered, memories rising to hir mind unbidden, memories best left forgotten. “I didn’t choose this for myself. I didn’t _want_ this!”  

“Your life, while difficult, has been nothing short of remarkable.” said Kagrenac. “So remarkable that it reads as a poem. The unique hardships you’ve faced have shaped you into an irreplaceable individual, one with talents that couldn’t be learned in an easier situation. Yes, one might wonder who could possibly will such things to happen to himself… but there are situations worse than yours. You might dream of a boringly easy life, but someone whose life is both torturous and unremarkable might dream of a torturously poetic life.”

“I didn’t dream any of this! It’s just my life. I’m just--”

“You’re ‘just’ Vehk, yes. But perhaps there have been other Vehks. Illiterate, impoverished Vehks who know nothing but an urchin’s existence. Unremarkable Vehks who dream of a remarkable life. I’ve read your works, and through it felt your thoughts. It seems to me that you’re already inclined towards altering your own history through poetry. Why should your own past be exempt?”

“How could I change my own past?” ze cried. “It’s not possible! I’ve never controlled a thing.”

“A God controls everything.”

“But I’m not a God. I’m not. It’s not possible! Mortals can’t be Gods!”

Kagrenac laughed, the sound so unexpected from his mouth as to seem profane. “Anything may be created by a knowing Architect. Gods are not exempt from this.”

Perhaps it was the accusations, the absurdity of it all, or the simple pain of recalling so much of hir wretched life-- Vehk crumpled, pressing hir hands to hir face in a futile effort to block out Kagrenac’s words.

A single finger, smooth and slender and surprisingly warm, tilted hir chin upwards again, guiding hir eyes back to Kagrenac’s unwavering gaze.

“To design a God is, by Logic, by Reason, the most noble desire a mortal may have.” Kagrenac told hir. “ But every event is preceded by destiny, so the God created must write himself through time if he is to make legitimate his Godhood. I have been looking for signs of one who might have done so for many years now. I have never found him until now.”

“What do you want from me?” Vehk whispered.

“I want to turn you into a God.”

“It’s not… It’s not possible…”

“Perhaps not. But within the hypothetical concept lies a practical offer. And it’s a good offer, one which most Dwemer would never dream of receiving, if they were permitted to dream.” Kagrenac stood upright, returning his hands to his sides. “Of course, you’d have much to learn. And it will be many years before I come close to having Reason reveal the mechanisms I need. You called yourself an egg; it seems to me that you are an egg of time, outside of the temporal and with no reason to fear it. What will happen to you has already happened. So if fear is staying your hand, disregard it. The events that are to follow are already written in stone.”

“But what does this mean for me?” Vehk asked, a strange tremor in hir voice.

“You’ll go back to residing within the Netchiman’s wife. You lived under a persona for many years. You’ll do so again, but this time the Netchiman’s Wife will be a fair bit more…” Kagrenac paused, “Dwemeri, I should think.”

“Dwemeri?”

“I’m intend to order Bthuand to induct you into Clan Mzanch.” said Kagrenac. “From now on you’ll be treated as any other Dwemer, serving as Bthuand Mzanch’s assistant and apprentice. You will become one of us, in body and in mind if not in soul. Once you’ve accepted us as family and come to Love us, we will send you to spy on the Chimer on our behalf, and the Netchiman’s Wife we have constructed will do so gladly, for she will be Dwemer and wish to serve her clan.” He paused, his lips curling into a thin yet sincere smile. “Is this something you desire?”

Vehk found that ze couldn’t answer that. Which wasn’t to say that ze knew the answer-- it was just such a fantastic, unfathomable offer that ze couldn’t quite believe it to be real.

For ze knew enough of dwarves by now to understand that Kagrenac was offering something much more valuable and holy than godhood. He offered livelihood, kinship, and _belonging,_ the assertion that ze would be accepted and wanted and valuable among the unbreakable bonds of the Dwemer clans, something Vehk had never believed ze would find. Dwemer believed that ones own perception was second to that of the Architects, and so if Kagrenac named hir Dwemer it would be so. Ze would no longer be an outcast, no longer be alone.The Dwemer would accept hir as one of their own, as if ze’d been born into their ranks. Ze would have a family name, companions…

And love.

This isn’t where we were meant to be, whispered the egg. But the egg was secluded deep inside of hir, its terrifying potential locked away along with Kagrenac’s words. It was instead the lips of the simulacrum of the Netchiman’s wife that curled into a shy smile, and spoke: “I do desire it.”

“Then it shall be so.” declared Kagrenac. “Go, apprentice Vel-Vehk. I await our next encounter.”

No Dwemer would question the dismissal of the High Craftlord and so Vehk left without questioning.

In truth it was the newly-reformed Netchiman’s Wife that left; Vehk had quite suddenly detached from hir body, reeling with the implications of the conversation with Kagrenac. It had shaken hir so greatly that ze felt that ze would fall apart if ze tried to fathom it-- each fact the Architect had told hir threatened all ze’d once known and believed about hirself, and it felt that if truly comprehending it would cause hir to break apart entirely. So ze curled up within the simulacrum and tried not to think at all, or took solace in thrusting the responsibility of the future onto the Netchiman’s Wife so that ze could remain intact and unburdened, safe--

“Vel?”

Vehk was shaken from hir reverie and discovered that the Netchiman’s Wife had carried hir to the provisioning hall.

Standing before hir was the Apprentice Provisioner, the same one ze’d mocked just two weeks ago, not knowing then he’d become hir first disciple. Now ze blinked in surprise as he greeted hir with a respectful nod.  “I’ve been looking for you,” he began, shyly. “I have a gift.”

Still numb, ze stared at him. “A gift?”

“Scouting Party One apprehended a caravan the other day,” he explained, sheepish, “And during my recreational shift I managed to procure a ration of pure saltrice... Inspired by your wisdom, I decided to try my hand at… Well, it’s not much, but, och--” He thrust a pitcher, steaming and hot, into Vehk’s hands.

The pitcher itself was brass, filled to the brim with a pale blue goop, but its smell was so distinctive that ze recognized it immediately.  “Saltrice porridge.” ze whispered. “You made me saltrice porridge.”

“Ever since you first told me of meeting Seht I’ve intended to try my hand at it.” said the Provisioner, embarrassed. “I do hope you find it satisfactory.”

“But… I don’t understand?”

“Since you first taught me of emotion I’ve come to appreciate a great many of them.” explained the Provisioner. “And in my study I have, by the art of empathy, realized that you must dearly miss the surface. And because you are my Teacher, and my friend, and someone I Love, and as close as clan-kin to me, I thought you would desire something to soothe your homesickness…”  He trailed off. “... Is something wrong?”

“You’re my friend.” Vehk repeated after him. “Even though I’m… A Chimer. We’re friends. And you love me.” The porridge smelt fresh, thick and salty in a way that reminded hir of the sea. “Are we friends?”

“I am your friend.” The Provisioner vowed. “Until death and beyond.”

Vehk grinned; ze grinned, joyous as ze’d never been before, though hir face was wet with tears. “We’re friends.”

And for a moment all seemed well.

  
  
  
  
  



	9. VII, Part Two

_1E413, Frostfall._

 

_The night of the Eclipse._

 

* * *

 

 

“In those years I was a friend to him, he was keenly proud of his thu’um.” Dres Khizumet’e recounted, his expression uncharacteristically grim. “Two powers, has Chemua: the power of battle-cry, from which he takes the name Roaring-Heart, and the power of sky-sickening, by which rain turns foul and poisons land and flesh alike.”

The throne room was quiet. Almalexia stood with her commanders—Star-Sung, Mora Valyn, and a rogue named Ondusi, infamous for her talents in infiltration—surrounding the central table, on which lay a map of Morrowind. Towards the bottom of the table the map showed Mournhold, ancient and proud, surrounded by the vast and fertile Deshaan Plains. North of the city a long and lazy river arced from east to west, and marked the border to the volcanic Stonefalls region. At the northern apex of the river’s curve, nestled safely in its natural courtyard within a low mountain range, lay Mzithumz.

“Is trapping him in close quarters really the best thing to do, then?” asked Star-Sung.

“Close quarters means no room for the thu’um.” Valyn replied. “And no room for magic, if he did indeed side with the Telvanni, as Serjo Dres claims. To force him into melee combat gives us the advantage.”

Almalexia placed her hand on a piece of parchment, on which a rough sketch portrayed their best estimate of the stronghold’s interior: a circle of corridors, connecting two or three large rooms. What was in those rooms, or what details they’d missed, they couldn’t say. They would soon enough find out.

“There’s only one entrance to the stronghold.” said Almalexia. “Once he knows we’re coming he’ll move his troops out into the open, where he has the advantage. So we march at night and hope to take him by surprise. Our best hope is to trap him. He’ll be unable to wield his thu’um—Chimer are skilled with short-swords and light armours, we’ll be in our element in close-quarters combat. Chemua, however, is clumsy and suffers claustrophobia. Being trapped in the dark will disorient him and we can use that.”

Star-Sung hesitated. “And of the Telvanni?”

“Magic is unreliable beneath an eclipse.” Ondusi observed quietly. It was the first thing the rogue had said since they gathered, and it did nothing to set the room at ease. 

“… Well, I’m not Sotha Sil. I won’t rely on esoterics for my victories.” Almalexia declared. She rose from her seat and began to pace, passing by each of her commanders in turn. “We’ll trap him and his mages both, and trap them without mercy. I will not let Mournhold or her people come to harm. He may threaten me and yet receive my grace, but the moment he threatened my city, he declared his own death!” There was passion and conviction in her voice, and it seemed to strengthen her commanders, for each stood a little straighter as she passed them. “The people of my city—each one of you—I think of as my children. A mother may show mercy to an enemy that harms her, but to one who threatens her children? I endured seven years of Chemua’s cruelty for the sake of my citizens, my loyal friend Dres Khizumet’e will attest to what I suffered out of love for this city. And now Chemua thinks to threaten it! I swear on my might it will be the last mistake he ever makes. I will show him what mercy Almalexia gives those who harm her people—for by the time I’ve finished with the fiend, death will be the sweetest mercy he could ask for!”

Her speech, heartfelt as it was, lifted the mood of the room—Star-Sung hit the table with a warm shout of ‘Hear, here!’, Mora Valyn bowed and crossed his hands over his chest, Ondusi grasped her shoulder firmly. Only Dres Khizumet’e, who wasn’t of Mournhold, remained unmoved by the speech; he simply turned away, without a word, to observe the setting sun.

They were to attack that night and there was no time to waste. As the final rays of sunlight slid from the sky and the walls of the throne room shifted from orange to grey to pale purple, Almalexia’s furious self-righteousness warded off the sense of foreboding so often brought about when the moons overlapped. Within hours they would march from the city in two great columns, sent off by torchlights and townfolk lining the streets, men and mer alike celebrating Mournhold’s brave defenders. And before the sun rose again they’d fight their way into Mzithumz, so close and yet so far from home, and their enemies would fall beneath their swords beneath the ominous eclipse.

When reflecting on this night in years to come, Almalexia would recall that, during his great betrayal, it was said that Lorkhan was laughing.

 

***

 

With Kagrenac departed for Vvardenfell, and the spider-engineers and highest officials with him, Mzithumz had become a ghost-Stronghold; only a sparse company of soldiers remained to protect the crews of laborers, the book-minders and maintainers who worked diligently to store away whatever assets Bthuand had deemed non-essential. Once their work was done the stronghold would be abandoned entirely, its contents left in the custody of dormant automatons until the Dwemer decided to return. Besides the low-ranking laborers, Bthuand himself also had yet to evacuate—he refused to undertake the burdensome task of migration before he’d finished observing the eclipse—but his holy presence did little to stop the stronghold from feeling abandoned, a shell of its former self now that its forges were cold and its halls barren.

Nestled within the silent womb of a disused residential hall, a group of solemn Dwemer crowded round a single stone bed. Vehk sat upon this bed, illuminated by magika-lamps dimmed for third shift; hir eyes were half-lidded, hir voice was low and sensual, and ze sat still, motionless but for the slight meditative swaying of hir body as ze spoke. With the stronghold so empty, their poetry recitals had reached new heights of audacity. Hir audience had flocked without caution to hear hir speak of hir audience with Kagrenac, and faithful to hir disciples as ever, ze recounted the incident freely for all to hear.

“He bent his head and I fed him milk from my milk-finger, and wrapped enigmas around his bare shoulders… Upon his glowing head I placed a crown of humilities, and as he kissed my feet I pulled strands of flame from my head and wove it into his crown, until he was sodden. I gave unto him these words: _AE KOHT AE EHLNOFEX_ …”

Of course, ze’d opted to eschew the truth in favour of hir own profound-sounding nonsense. But if the awe-struck expressions upon their faces were anything to go by, hir audience bore no objection.

“… And at my reading, his head split apart, and out poured precisely forty moths, each one bearing forty flowers upon its six iridescent wings.” Vehk paused, exhaling, and looked round. Many of the Dwemer had their eyes downcast, or were pressed close to a neighbor, reverently silent. Anzthand had his head in Dachuur’s lap; the apprentice Provisioner sat at Vehk’s feet, watching hir with unconcealed admiration. He smiled when their eyes met. Ze looked at hir own hands and continued, hir voice softer, now. “I took pity on him and caught the moths in my hands. I turned them into an ocean, which Sehti caught the Chimer to love, and I poured them back down his throat, so that they might stitch him back together and fill him for-ever with enlightenment, which he will share unto the Dwemer and use to gild our skins. These are the lessons I gave unto the spirit of Logic when I met him. Ponder them.”

“What of reason?” whispered someone.

“Reason is Logic’s win.” Vehk explained. “But female. Her true name is Cause. She moves by action.” Eyes flickered towards hir, intrigued by this new line, so ze paused to arrange hir half-truths before continuing. “Cause is subtle and moves like sighing, her kiss tastes like a nightmare you forget upon waking. I met her, too, and I could see that Logic did not give birth to, a lie which many of your kind fall for. With my hands—“

A sharp _tzz_ and the lights flickered, and then they were extinguished entirely, leaving the room in total darkness.

Frantic, confused murmurs immediately filled the air. Vehk felt someone grab hir leg as dwarves began to move around hir, their voices rising in collective worry—

“Why have the lights gone out? Were the generators to be dismantled?”

“I heard nothing. Did you receive thought of this?”

“I didn’t. Did you? Something isn’t right!”

“Teacher—“ the Provisioner whispered into Vehk’s ear, so close that his breath tickled hir skin, causing hir to flinch. “You’re wiser than we! What is this?”

“Quiet!” Vehk hissed to the group. “Whatever it is—“

A sharp crackle of flame interrupted hir, and all eyes turned to Anzthand, who held a ball of magika-flame aloft in the air. “Vel will direct us.” he assured them.

All eyes turned to Vehk, wide and trusting. However, before ze could say a thing a few of the Dwemer cried out, and some among the crowd became stiff and quiet, as they did when receiving a message telepathically. Vehk was no true Dwemer and so couldn’t hear the thought-communication--  however, ze didn’t need to be connected to the hivemind to recognize the fear upon their faces. The silence became unbearable and ze seized the Provisioner by the arm. “What are they saying?” ze demanded. “What’s going on? What’s happened?”

The Provisioner shuddered and closed his eyes. “They’re saying,” he whimpered, “That the stronghold is under attack.”

 

***

 

Illuminated by moonlight, two rows of soldiers stood in orderly formation in the shadows of a hilly bluff. Many were Nords and many more were Chimer; golden skin, glinting eyes, their armor was supple netch leather, their armaments short-swords and shields. Some faces were optimistic and more were grim; each bore the knowledge that they would soon be in close-quarters combat with unfriendly foes in unfriendly territory. Their stances didn’t waver despite this, and for their stalwart strength, Almalexia mutely thanked them.

There was time yet before the battle and the Queen occupied herself by walking up and down the columns. She alone wore heavy armour, a full ebony cuirass and steel skirt with oversized pauldrons; the cost to her mobility was worthwhile, she’d judged, to protect her torso from prying hands. Her soldiers didn’t remark on this choice. They’d lived under Nordic subjugation too, once; they would understand.

Their success that night depended on stealth, so no speeches were given, lest the volume of her voice attract the attention of the enemy. Nonetheless, she strode up and down the two columns, murmuring words of strength and courage to each soldier she passed. “My Shouts, my children of Mournhold.” she said to each one, nodding to them or touching their shoulders. “Your ancestors watch you tonight, as do the ancestors of our city. Those spirits of your brothers, your sisters, your children, whom Chemua and his men have raped and killed—they watch you. The land of Veloth protects you. We shall protect our city; our homes will never be threatened again. We make sure of it tonight.”

When she returned to the head of the army, a scout was waiting for her. “My Queen,” he said briskly, “The rogues have been sent in.”

Almalexia paused and glanced at her commanders. Mora Valyn looked stern, Commander Star-Sung uneasy; Ondusi tapped one slim finger impatiently against her bicep. Behind her commanders her soldiers stood strong and read, and above them, the two moons slid ever-closer to each other.

She raised her head and announced, “Then we march.”

 

***

“Attacked?!”

The room was buzzing, each Dwemer exchanging uncertain glances. They were obviously still receiving orders by thought, but Vehk was privy to none of that and that terrified hir. Hir only information came from the expressions ze could see on the faces around hir—horror, confusion, dread. Anxiety was mounting in hir breast and ze shook the Provisioner's shoulder. “By whom?” ze demanded. “What’s happening? _Tell me!_ ”

Someone in the audience cried out, falling to their knees.

“An unknown foe has forced the front door and stalled the generators.” the Provisioner answered, his voice shaking. “They’re intruding towards the forge—they—“

“The Architect has abandoned Logic!” Another dwarf shoved his way to the bed, seizing the Provisioner by the front of his robes. “We’re but apprentices, archivers, servants! We cannot hold the stronghold against an army!”

Vehk was shoved back as another dwarf—ze recognized Dachuur—came between the two. “Who are you to question the architect?!” he asked. 

“We will die!”

“Yes, as the Architect demands!”

“ _No!_ ”

“It is our _duty_ —“

“I am no warrior! _I don’t wish to die!_ ”

“SILENCE! We must—“

Hysteria was mounting rapidly in the room, voices rising over each other in disarray such as was never meant to be heard among the Dwemer, who worshiped Logic. “We will buy time for the Architect to escape!” shouted Dachuur above the rest. “Listen to Reason! _This_ is Reason! He is more valuable than we!”

“Vel taught us better, Dachuur!” someone shouted back. “You traitor, you fool!”

“You dare listen to this Chimer over the Enlightened One?!”

“No, Vel is right!” another voice said. “Why are we less valuable? Why must _we_ die?”

“Vel taught us want!" another argued. "I don’t _want_ to die! Vel!”

“Vel!”

Suddenly the madness of the room had a focus. Vehk was abruptly seized by strong arms and pulled upwards, atop the bed—someone held hir aloft before the crowd, and ze found hirself the focus of dozens of frantic, feverish stares. “Brothers!” the dwarf who’d lifted hir—the Provisioner—shouted. “Vel taught us desire, and now we desire to live! The Architect would have us lay down our lives so that his may continue. Do not listen to him! Look into your minds and consider your emotions, your desires—you know that Reason, Logic and Truth tell you to heed the fourth force which Vel taught us of, that spirit called Heart!”

“Blasphemy!” Dachuur cried.

“The Dwemer have four Gods now!” declared the Provisioner. “Reason, Logic and Truth call me to Heart. I will listen! If they direct you similarly, then look to Vel, who knows them better than we do! And if you remain ignorant, Dachuur, you and all others may go lay down your lives for the Architect who does not even know your name!”

All eyes were on Vehk, held aloft like a banner by the red-faced Provisioner, and for a brief, absurd second ze wondered if this is how Veloth felt, when Boethiah made him the leader of the Chimer’s revolution.

“Anzthand,” sputtered Dachuur, turning to the crowd. “You know I’m correct.”

“Vel taught us Love.” Anzthand replied in a strained voice. “We’ve always Loved each other, and he gave it a name. Doesn’t that prove he’s right?”

“It’s blasphemy, Anzthand! It’s wrong!”

“Dachuur, I beg you—“

But Dachuur didn't listen. “I see that the minds of my clan-mates are not so strong as I believed.” he said sadly. “I will leave, then, and join the defense. If any have not been blinded, they will join me.” Then he shoved through the crowd, and none moved to stop him, nor join him, until he’d stepped through the door and let it shut with a heavy _clang_.

A silence fell across the room, broken only by Anzthand’s mute, muffled sobs. It was complete, then: a mutiny had occurred in Mzithumz, a possibility never so much as fathomed by the Dwemer, who’d always thought themselves too reasonable for such petty trifles as rebellion. The collective sense of awe at this historical moment was short-lived; a loud _hum_ roused them from their thoughts, and pale emergency lights flickered on, casting the room in a feeble red glow. All eyes turned to Vehk again and the Dwemer, true to their nature, waited for their Teacher to tell them what to do.

“Right.” Vehk said, trying to sound confident despite hir shaking voice. “The spiders. Who here knows how to re-activate the spiders? You need to go do that, and, um, we need someone to go with them for protection, too, it’s important that we get the spiders working! And another group needs to go activate the centurion, does anyone know how to? … Fine, no Centurion, then, it’s okay, the spiders should be enough. Everyone else needs to get to safety! The torture chamber, the one that was decommissioned years ago, there’s a breach down there, it should lead to a cave and you should be able to use that to get to safety. Everyone should get down there as quick as you can.”  

“What will you do?” asked the Provisioner.

Vehk pressed hir knuckles to hir forehead, trying to think through a haze of rapidly mounting fear. “I’ll go to the Architect’s study.” ze said. “We can use his tools, and I need to get Milk Finger, he’ll know where it is. I’ll go to the study.”

“I’ll go with you!" the Provisioner replied quickly. "You’re too valuable to go alone.”

“Okay, fine. Let’s go, then. Everyone, go!”

The Dwemer, obedient by nature, dispersed. “Wait!” someone called from the group, and Anzthand shoved his way to the stone bed. “Teacher,” he began—his voice was raw, and Vehk noticed that tears streaked his face. “I know how to activate the Centurion, I alone can give you access to the Archival halls where it’s stored. And there’s a secret passage from the Archive to the Architect’s study that will be safe. Let me show it to you.”

Vehk nodded. “Thank you. That would be good.” ze hesitated, then placed a hand on his shoulder. “About Dachuur--“

“Teacher!” the Provisioner interrupted. “We should hurry!”

“I agree.” replied Anzthand curtly, shoving away Vehk’s hand. “I’ll lead the way.”

And so they set off.

 

***

  
“The good thing about the Dwemer,” purred Ondusi, crouching by the door to the stronghold, “Is that they think magic is below them. As do the Nords. Thus, neither of the fools thought to make sure that nobody could use magic to get into their homes. Which makes my job easy. Here—“ the Stronghold door glowed briefly as some spell worked through its locks, and then, without resistance, it creaked open. “My Queen.” she said, stepping aside.

“Thank you, Ondusi.” Almalexia said, voice low. The door was set into the rocky face of a mountain, an unnatural brass scar in the rugged hillside where the Dwemer had constructed their stronghold. Beyond the door a smooth metal hallway descended rapidly into darkness. To the Chimer it seemed distinctly unnatural—like a gullet made of brass, the stronghold seemed a parasite within the mountain, waiting for its prey to march into its gaping maw. The darkness was part of the plan, Almalexia knew, and would provide them an advantage, yet she couldn't help but feel intimidated by it. It seemed unwise to lead her first real battle in the dark.

Mora Valyn appeard beside her, holding a torch aloft. “My Queen,” he said. “Shall we?”

She drew her sword and nodded. “Shouts!” she called. “Advance!”

According to their intelligence, the stronghold was arranged in a roughly rectangular fashion, and consisted of two main chambers at opposite corners of the rectangle, connected on either side by long bending hallways which linked the chambers to each other in one complete loop. The entrance was connected by a long passage to one of these hallways; allegedly it was the only entrance. Their strategy depended on that fact.

The invasion would begin when burglars, cloaked in fire-resistance spells, dropped through the venting shafts of the stronghold and disabled the generators which the Dwemer used to provide energy for their lights. Once the generators were disabled and the stronghold’s lamps extinguished, Ondusi, a powerful spellsword infamous for her skills in lockpicking, would open the door to allow the army in. The Shouts themselves had been divided into two halves. The first half, lead by Almalexia and Mora Valyn, would make straight for the main chamber, while Star-Sung and Ondusi diverged and worked their way along the loop, approaching the main chamber from the other side. If they moved quickly enough, they would be able to crush the Nords between two forces, and the tight quarters would favor the shortswords of the Shouts, while putting the Tongue and his men at a deadly disadvantage. Any problems which might arise could be dealt with by sheer numbers and determination; Almalexia refused to even consider the possibility of defeat.

Mora Valyn lead the column, torch raised in one hand and short-sword held before him in the other. Almalexia followed behind him, with her shield-bearer marching close to her side, a tall Velothi tower shield at the ready. She kept both hands on the hilt of her sword; it was the same sword she’d used in her duel against Chemua years ago, it had tasted his blood, and its steady presence in her palms soothed her. The hallway was narrow, barely wide enough to walk two abreast, and the cramped quarters did little for Almalexia’s anxiety. She already regretted that she’d chosen to wear heavy armour.

The hallway seemed to stretch on forever, sloping gradually downwards into the bowels of the earth. Torchlight bounced off the brass walls and faded only metres before them. The only sound was the rhythmic stomp of boots on metal floors. No alarm sounded, no soldiers came to meet them, and the further they progressed, the more unsettling the lack of resistance became. Why was the stronghold so empty?

Finally, after what seemed like hours but couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, they came to a fork in the passage way. Before them the hallway continued straight, into darkness; to the right it stretched a short ways before terminating in a narrow doorway.

“Ondusi.” Mora Valyn commanded. The rogue approached the door and, casting a spell, examined it closely, resting one hand on its hinges and peering at the metal. “No signs of life within one-hundred fifty feet.” she said at last. “The archive, I presume?”

“Star-Sung.” Almalexia said, “Your faction branches off here. Valyn and I will continue straight ahead.”

“Aye, Queen.” Star-Sung, awkwardly large in the confined hallway, pushed through the soldiers and to Ondusi’s side. He gave Almalexia a pat on the back as he passed her. “Kyne favour you tonight.”

“And you.” replied Almalexia, before turning to address the column. “The rest of you, with me! We march on.”

As Star-Sung’s men peeled away from the main force, Almalexia and Mora Valyn proceeded down the main corridor. The descent began to level out, and the hall grew wider as it did, the narrow floor broadening before them. Almalexia could hear humming now, a deep mechanical purr emanating from within the smooth brass walls. “Careful,” she murmured to Valyn as they rounded a bend, “Something isn’t right—“

She hadn’t finished speaking before the ceiling slid open and spiders rained down upon them.

In an instant the hallway transformed into the most uncanny of battlegrounds. Formerly seamless walls opened to reveal hidden passages and out poured a host of gleaming metallic shapes, hard brass bodies with sharp legs that jabbed out at soft bodies as they poured downwards. The soldiers were caught by surprise, and in the few moments it took for them to regain their senses the spiders sunk their claws deep into armour and flesh. A few unfortunate Shouts fell with cries of pain, mechanical legs buried in their forms, and the rest immediately used swords and shields to defend themselves from the chittering downpour. One spider landed atop Almalexia’s pauldron, but its legs bounced harmlessly off of her ebony cuirass and in the second it took her to notice it her shield-bearer knocked it from her shoulder. She lifted her foot and rammed it down hard upon the spider, crushing its carapace and sending sparks flying. “Knock them to the ground!” she shouted above the din of clanking metal. “Crush them underfoot!” But many of the soldiers had already realized the same, and the battle became a flurry of downward punches and strikes with the flats of swords, as the automatons were batted to the ground where they met their demise beneath sturdy boots.

The assault seemed to last only moments before the last of the spiders were trampled. A few Shouts had been felled by the sharp legs of the machines, and one unlucky man had met his end when the automaton he’d crushed exploded, ending his life in a violent shark of sparks. The smell of charred, roasting meat wafted down the corridor, and it took much of Almalexia’s self-control not to keel over and retch at the aroma—she’d never smelled a man burn before.

“Well done.” Mora Valyn murmured, grabbing her arm.

Her heart was galloping but she steadied herself. “Advance!” she called out, the order ringing through the hall.

The Shouts advanced quickly, moving down into the stronghold with adrenalin coursing through their veins. Spiders continued to rain down on them, but none with the persistence of the first assault, and all were quickly shoved to the ground and dispatched beneath the feet of the encroaching army. Before the battle, Almalexia had been fearful—now she marched with fierce determination, shockingly close to excitement in her mind. The heat of war, she supposed it was. It was invigorating, even enjoyable, and she found herself hoping they would be attacked once more as they continued down the endlessly long corridor.

“Could the Nords have hijacked the spiders?” Mora Valyn asked quietly as they walked.

“Telvanni.” Almalexia replied. “Sil always said they’re blasphemously clever. Leave it to them to decipher the machines of the Dwemer.”

“And yet…” Mora Valyn trailed off. Almalexia glanced to him and was surprised to see that his expression was grim.

“What is it?” she asked. “You seem worried.”

“Why not send out a more robust defence? Why let us continue unheeded?”

“Perhaps they’re focusing their defence on Star-Sung’s men.”

“Or perhaps this is a trap.”

Almalexia tightened her grip on her sword. “It’s not a trap. If they trap us, they’ll trap themselves.”

Valyn, frowning, didn’t reply, so she gave him a friendly thump on the back, and forced herself to smile. “Patience, sera.” she said. “This corridor can’t last forever, not even the Dwemer could engineer that.”

“My Queen.” Valyn conceded, reluctantly. “I trust your judgement.”

“Good. Then—“

Her words were lost in an abrupt shriek of steam. All around them pipes came abruptly to life, gaskets howling as pressure escaped stressed relief valves. Almalexia ducked, raising her sword over her head in an instinctive block; behind her the Shouts did likewise, prepring to defend their most vulnerable parts from the incoming attack.

But no attack came. Instead of an enemy, a rhythm of heavy clangs swept echoed from behind the walls, sweeping down the corridor and past their army. Massive, unseen cogs, churning in a rhythmic clunking chain that culminated in an earth-shattering slam of metal just behind the force. For one dreadful moment, the whole world vibrated.

When the shaking had stopped Almalexia spun on her heel to face her soldiers. “What was that?!”

“A gate just fell!” replied someone near the back. “We’re trapped!”

 

***

 

“Are battles always so quiet?” whispered the Provisioner.

Three mer snuck along a corridor in near-darkness; it did, at that moment, seem far too quiet, given the current dire circumstances. The loudest sound they could hear was the faint hiss of steam behind the walls, the occasional muffled clang of gears… and, of course, their own footsteps, footsteps that were a little too loud for Vehk’s liking.

“I’m not sure.” Vehk whispered in reply. “But be quiet, just in case.”

“I see!” the Provisioner nodded. “Forgive the ambiguity of my question! I meant to say, have any of the battles you’ve experienced been so silent?” Ever since he’d talked the Dwemer into revolt he’d been unable to shut up, and though their lives were in peril, he seemed  _excited_. He’d chattered quietly since they left the room, clinging to Vehk’s arm with pride, and it was only out of begrudging affection that Vehk didn’t smack him for being so loud.

“I’ve only been in one battle.” Vehk answered patiently, “And it was loud. There was so much yelling… that was Nords, though.”

“You believe it’s not Northmen who attack us?”

“I’m not sure. Nords shout, Chimer are sneaky.”

“I dislike it.” murmured Anzthand. He walked in front of them, pressed close to the wall, and had been silent and sullen since they left. “Why would Chimer attack us?”

Neither Vehk nor the Provisioner had an answer, and it was in uneasy silence that they finally arrived at the door to the Archives. The Dwemer’s precious information was stored behind a large sturdy door covered in intricate locks of clockwork and pale gemstones; Anzthand stooped over and held his lips close to one gem, and hummed a few eerie notes against a surface. A long pause, punctuated only by an odd hum—then the machinery unwove itself with a series of atonal clicks, sending the heavy door rolling slowly out of their path.

The room beyond was dark and spacious, a metallic bronze chamber that bore no lightning, save for the pale blue runes inscribed upon the tone-cubes that lined the shelves. Dwemeris speech could be turned into pure sound and stored in the form of music, Vehk had once been told. This room supposedly held an orchestra of secrets, but to hir untrained ears and without the proper instruments, it was silent. 

Being the stealthiest of the three, Vehk lead the way into the room, tiptoeing past the door and immediately flattening hirself into the shadow of a bookshelf. Hir eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom and ze surveyed the hall. The bulk of it was filled with shelves—some were packed with neat stacks of runed cubes, others were lined with books and thick sheafs of dusty paper, the relics of Dwemer not lofty enough to employ tonal storage. The middle of the room had been cleared to leave room for desks and chairs, barren now that the stronghold had been systematically emptied. In the middle of the desks stood a steam-centurion.

Vehk glanced over hir shoulder and saw that hir companions watched hir nervously from the threshold. Ze stepped out of the shadows and beckoned to them, hir lips parting to whisper a reassurance—no sound escaped before ze heard the faint click of locks falling open. Ze seized the two by the shoulders and dragged them into the bookshelf’s shadow just as the door at the opposite end of the room rolled open.

“And you did that with magic, eh?” A man’s voice, gravelly and speaking in accented Aldmeris, drifted across the room.

“I certainly didn’t do it with lockpicks.” replied a woman—a Chimer, by the deep timbre of her voice and her lilting accent. “The more complex mechanisms require… a special tough, you might say.”

Pressed close to the shelf so as to remain unseen, Vehk leaned out so that ze could get a glimpse of the intruders. At the far doorway two armored figures stood—one in steel, the other in some green glassy mineral. “Fan out, men.” ordered the Nord, the one in steel, and Vehk watched as several more people moved out from behind them, slowly dispersing through the Archive. “Take no prisoners and let none escape.”

Someone tugged on Vehk’s sleeve; ze glanced back and locked eyes with Anzthand. Anzthand gestured towards the steam-centurion, then to the invaders, then to Vehk—ze didn’t need to be connected to the hivemind to catch his meaning.

“I’m beginning to think we’re on a wild guar-chase.” The woman’s voice was calm, unworried, and its smooth tones masked Vehk’s light footsteps as ze crept towards the middle of the room.

“What do you mean?” the man replied. Vehk paused as an invader passed by, then darted for the cover of a nearby desk. Crouching on hir haunches, ze pressed hirself to the side, balancing in the shadows. They were far too close. 

“This stronghold is abandoned.” the woman said. “If there was a fight to be had, we’d have found it by now.”

The invader paused by the desk—he was so close that Vehk could see the rough stitches of his armour and each link of his chainmail helmet. Ze didn’t dare to breathe.

“You sound awful certain, elf.” the man’s voice drifted over hir.

The leathered figure moved on and Vehk exhaled in relief. The circle of scouts was moving outwards, past hir—from the corner of hir eye ze could see Anzthand and the Provisioner pressed together, cowering behind the open door. “Oh, it’s pretty obvious.” said the woman, further away now. “Telvanni summon daedra as their initial defence. Have you seen daedra? Your Queen’s been made a fool of… you’re wasting time here.”

Vehk glanced around. The scouts had moved out and their backs were now turned towards the centre of the room; evidently, the invaders had realized that the steam-centurion was dormant. Now was hir chance.

“Then why are you here?” asked the Nord. His voice, deep and pleasant, concealed the sound of Vehk’s bare feet crossing the final few feet to the centurion.

“I’m the best locksmith in Mournhold.” said the woman. She said something else, but her voice was drowned out by the sound of Vehk’s own heartbeat, deafening and frantic in hir ears. Now that ze was directly behind the centurion it seemed far bigger, and far more terrifying, than ze'd realized. Hands shaking, ze lifted the panel from its dock and found the glowing activation button, hesitating with hir hand hovering over it.

A sharp cry—“Dwarves!”—jarred hir to hir senses. Ze slammed hir palm into the button.

The stronghold, previously dormant, sprung to life. A loud _hum_ filled the room, announcing that Mzithumz’s extensive security systems had been triggered at last, and it bore down on the invaders with ruthless efficiency. Clang after heavy clang echoed as barrier gates fell, obstructing the main hallways so that none could move forwards or back. Transportation chutes shot open as spiders were awoken and deployed in full combat mode. Countless traps, once inert, were suddenly activated, and comfortable domestic spaces transformed seamlessly into whirring pitfalls of sharp spinning blades and jets of searing flame.

The centurion above Vehk detached from its dock with a long steaming _hiss_. Heavy limbs, rarely used, shuddered and ground into position as the massive machine woke slowly from its slumber. It turned its head with a sigh of steam-hydraulics; its blank red eyes observed the invaders that had so rudely disturbed its rest. A shrug of its gargantuan shoulders, a puff of hot moist air, and it announced its resurrection with a plume of scalding steam.

Vehk threw hirself to the ground, crying out as the hot air seared hir flesh. The great centurion heard the cry and tottered around to face hir. Kagrenac had promised hir belonging, but this steam-centurion had not received the message; it saw only a non-Dwemer writhing on the ground below it, and its mechanical mind decided that this was offensive. As the Nord rallied his men with orders to bring down the behemoth, it raised one massive foot above Vehk’s helpless form.

Strong hands grabbed hir, dragging hir away, and the centurion’s foot rammed into the floor a hair’s breadth from hir skin.

“Vel!” the Provisioner cried from the sidelines. Anzthand dragged Vehk to the side, down beneath the shelter of one of the desks, concealing hir from the chaos that was the invader’s retaliation against the centurion. “Kill the Dwemer!” ze heard someone shout, “Kill all of them!” Someone screamed as a plume of steam boiled them alive in their armour, and the centurion stomped towards another hapless intruder, jetting flame at flesh with apparent relish.

“You have to get out of here!” shouted Anzthand above the din. “Go! Hurry!”

“Show me to the study!”

“I’m not going with you!”

Vehk grabbed his shoulder. “You _have_ to! You can’t leave!”

Anzthand tore away. “I can’t let them kill Dachuur!”

Someone grabbed Vehk by the shoulders and ze shrieked, thrashing against the grip even as it dragged hir away. Anzthand seized the opportunity and ran, fleeing towards a shelf, using the chaos of battle as cover to run for the door. Vehk  was dragged back to the opposite entrance, the one they’d come through originally, and someone pressed hir to the corner of bookshelf and wall, shielding hir with their body.

“Forgive me, teacher!” the Provisioner cried, releasing hir. “But we must leave him! Your safety is the most important!”

“My arm.” Vehk hissed through gritted teeth.

They both glanced down—the Provisioner had grabbed hir in the same place the centurion had burned hir. From across hir upper arm and hir shoulder to down the front of hir chest hir skin had been boiled away. The Provisioner’s hand had left a weeping, bloody mark in the seared mess— it _hurt_. Vehk slumped back, clenching hir eyes shut, overwhelmed by nausea. Ze hadn’t been burned so badly since ze was two or three; ze abruptly recalled a ritual, a daedric shrine—

“Vel?” the Provisioner’s voice dispelled the vision and brought hir back to reality. “Teacher?”

“We need to go.” ze blurted out. “ _Now_.”

“But—but what about the Architect?”

“Forget him! Forget everyone! We need to _go!_ ”

The Provisioner looked confused, helpless, but when Vehk took his hand in hir own he relented and allowed Vehk to drag hir back down the hall. The battle was coming to a close, the steam-centurion was brought to one knee, but its fine craftsmanship kept it fighting valiantly on, kneeling amongst the strewn corpses of defeated surfaces. Vehk and the Provisioner didn’t look back at the battle as they fled, and to the chaotic sounds of sirens and death-shouts, hand in sweaty hand, they ran.

 

***

 

“Trapped?” Almalexia shouted. “What do you _mean_ trapped?!”

“A gate came down!” they called back.

Mora Valyn’s brow creased. “Someone’s woken the stronghold.”

“How much of our army do we still have?” Almalexia asked. “Someone, count!”

Her shield-bearer, cowed by her tone, pushed into the throng. He returned a moment later, face ashen. “No more than fifty men.”

Almalexia cursed and clenched her fists around her sword’s hilt. Directly before them she could see the end of a corridor: a massive door, split in half, with the line down the centre glowing bright red. She knew with certainty that this was the door that lead to the forge, and had no doubt whatsoever that her enemy lurked behind it. In her mind’s eye she saw Chemua and his soldiers lurking in wait of the kill. The Shouts were trapped, the way he liked his prey trapped. Any moment now he’d come sauntering down the corridor with that familiar swagger, his slight misfavour of his bad leg and his full helm hiding his smug face with the long hair and the wet red lips and the sword. And oh, how it would please him to find them cornered, cowering… how it always _aroused_ him to see her powerless—

“We fight on!” she ordered.

“My Queen.” Mora Valyn’s voice was low. “This isn’t wise—“

“The children of Mournhold will not be found cowering in a trap!” she retorted. “We shall meet our enemy actively, with claws! We are not mutts of Skyrim but nix-hounds of Morrowind, and we shall show them that Morrowind will not be seized!”

Her frantic speech invigorated her soldiers—their uncertainty boiled away and left behind only righteous rage. They cried out in support and their cries fuelled her in turn. She held her sword aloft and, with the name of her city on her lips, lead the charge into the forge.

 

***

 

The Inner Sea was calm that night. The water was still, the surface glassy and pale green of colour, undisturbed by neither gust of wind nor cresting wave. The hot and humid air pressed down from all sides, all the more present for how still it was; it smelt sharp and salted, and buzzed with latent static, causing loose hairs to stand on end. The sky was clear and deep as an abyss— multitudes of bright stars twinkled fiercely against a yawning indigo void, endless in their domain but for the most distant reaches of the horizon, where a churning mass of black clouds boiled on the skyline. All of Nirn was still, poised on the brink of an exhale; against a heartbreaking backdrop of Aether the two moons hung in potent half-eclipse. A storm was on the approach.

Sotha Sil stood at the prow of a fisherman’s boat and cursed the scene with all his heart.

He’d not rested since he left Mournhold, for his anxiety wouldn’t permit him it. He’d avoided the main road to Ebonheart and had instead traveled directly north, straight towards the coast, traveling alone through backroads and wilderness until he’d come to a small fishing village at the edge of the Inner Sea. Upon inquiry he’d been directed to a pair of cousins; they were unpleasant and suspicious, but once he’d brandished his name of Sotha they’d reluctantly agreed to arrange his passage to Vvardenfell. Deals were struck, payments made, and by the time the sun rose on the day Almalexia would lead her assault on Mzithumz, Sotha Sil was sailing brisky north-west to his hometown of Ald Sotha.

The wind had held strong for most of the journey and he’d been born towards the coast in fine time. But what had at first seemed a blessing turned out to be the cruellest of curses—when night had fallen and land was visible as a dark crest on the horizon, so tantalizingly close, the breeze had failed, and the boat ceased to move. Now he was stranded, the shore in sight yet far away, and Sotha Sil could do naught but curse anyone that would listen, curse them in despair that he couldn’t reach the family who now so desperately needed him.

The clouds on the horizon flashed purple with lightning. Sotha Sil grimace and turned his focus to the captain of the boat, an old fisherman. “How long will we be stalled?”

The fisherman, a cheerful, androgynous Argonian who wore its dull slave-bracer in stark contrast to its confident disposition, bared its teeth in a crocodile-grin. “Can you say when the wind will blow, wizard?” 

Sotha Sil should not have been surprised by the cryptic answer—for most of their journey the Argonian had been similarly vague, filling the hours with whimsical tales that were obviously more fantasy than truth. In his current state, however, he found his patience somewhat lacking. “If I could, I would have asked!” he snapped.

“Then you should learn to conjure a storm.” The Argonian, unfazed, replied. “You will always know when the storm hits if you are the one to summon it.”

“I’ll conjure a storm _atronach_ on you, if you continue to act like this.” Soth Sil muttered, returning his sight back to the horizons. The storm-clouds were larger now, but still distant—Sotha Sil had seen such storm-clouds often in his youth, and he knew from experience that they would not hit for many hours yet, large and cumbersome as they were. This knowledge did little to assuage his impatience and he paced along the prow of the boat, keeping his eyes directed outwards across the waves, as if monitoring the mass would somehow make them approach quicker. Though distance rendered them tiny, he could tell that they were towering—they rose in tall pinnacles above the horizon, or fell back down upon each other, too heavy to stand. At their northern tip they assumed a strange shape, their towers becoming sharp and uncanny, sprawling out against the sky like roots of a tree…

No, this was no cloud. Sotha Sil leaned over the side of the boat, trying to pick out the shape of the island which concealed the northern tip of the storm. In the darkness it seemed to be one massive tree—but it was too big to be a tree, and too _wrong_ , some gut instinct told him that no tree would be shaped so grotesquely. Its branches were angled and unnatural, like nothing that could be produced by Nirn, its arches reeked of foreboding even from a distance.

“What is that?” Sotha Sil asked aloud, his gaze transfixed on the structure.

The fisherman followed his stare over the ocean. “That,” it said, “Would be Bal Fell.”

Bal Fell remained minuscule upon the horizon, harmless and far away. But the memories that the name brought to mind were chilling—burned huts, charred bones, an infant’s skeleton pinned beneath the ruins. A child lying on his chest in the darkness, asking about marriage in a timid voice.

Sotha Sil wrenched his gaze away from the ruins. “Deliver my possessions to Ald Sotha.” he ordered the Argonian. If his companion asked any questions, he didn’t hear them—he focused his mind on casting a spell upon himself, and the moment the magic was done, he leapt over the side of the boat.

The smoothness of the water made waterwalking easy, and its glossy surface cushioned every footstep, so Sotha Sil found himself running as he advanced towards Ald Sotha. He’d never been athletic, but stamina-fortification enchantments staved off the worst of his fatigue, and anxiety drove him so that his pace didn’t falter for an instant. The last time he’d made this journey he’d born a child on his back. Poor Vehk, sacrificed to the King of Rape by the folly of Sotha Sil’s own father—did Sil’s own family now share that fate? Had the baby brother he’d not yet met been cast into the waves, just like Vehk had? Or was it brave, misguided Serlyn whose life had ended, cruelly snuffed out at the House of Trouble’s hands? With every possibility that rose to mind Sotha Sil forced himself to move a little faster, until his lungs and his legs burned beyond any relief magic could offer, and in his delirious mind, the world around him took on a haunting, evil sheen.

Slowly the silhouette of Ald Sotha grew on the horizon. Thin tendrils of smoke coiled skywards, turned pale red by the moonlight.

He grew closer and closer to land, passing by the threshold which separated the placid lagoon on which Ald Sotha sat from the more unforgiving Inner Sea, and with each step he took he could perceive more and more of his home. Sounds drifted to him over the still water—shouts, laughter, shrieks of delight or fear, a drum’s deep boom, each one distorted by distance, surreal. The town began to spread out before him, turning from one dark mass into several silhouettes, the forms of wooden huts and yurts scattered carelessly around the tall arcing shape of the shrine. Bright fires burned throughout the town, giving it a menacing orange aura, and periodically a bright flash of lightning or fire would shoot high into the sky. To the right, beyond the trees, the storm was rolling closer. The wind had picked up again and brought disjointed snippets of conversation to his ears.

Then, abruptly, he was stumbling onto land.

Ald Sotha’s beach had turned into a scene of chaos. It was crowded with mer, all talking and laughing and yelling to each other, crowded around massive bonfires whose flames rose high into the sky. Sotha Sil was immediately assaulted by a cacophony—laughter, shouts and conversation, the frantic beat of guarskin drums, to whose erratic rhythms several people danced and leapt about the fires. The air was thick with smoke and the delicious scent of roasting whale-meat; Chimer cloaked in enchanted robes danced through the roaring flames, tending to spitroasts or stirring soups that boiled within upturned emperor parasol caps. The faces about him were painted green and red, bearing circles to represent the moons, and their mouths were gaped in festive smiles, teeth glinting.

“Serjo!” A petite, laughing woman seized Sotha Sil by the sleeve of his robe. “Come, dance with me!”

She looked familiar, like a childhood friend he’d had, but that only added to Soth Sil’s perplexed panic. He wrenched his hand away and unfazed she spun away from him. Heart fit to burst with fear, he started at a run, pushing his way through throngs of people, up and towards the shrine.

People had taken notice of him, and as he made his way through the crowded streets he was pursued by cries of “Sotha Sil!” Heads turned to face him as he passed and hands reached greedily for his robes, tugging him back as if trying to consume him. He ran faster, shoved harder, fearing absurdly that if he stopped he would be lost forever. His mind was alive with twisted images—this was some cult’s doing, they’d turned his home into a festive orgy, his siblings were sacrificed in those bonfires, he’d mistaken the smell of their cooking meat for whale-flesh. Someone seized his sleeve and he slapped the hand away. The shrine was so close, now—

Arms embraced him and halted him. Someone swung him up into the air with a laugh. “Brother!”

It was Serlyn. Serlyn, Sotha Sil realized, was swinging him around like a child, laughing loudly. “Sil!” he yelled, “You came! Brother, you really came!”

Serlyn placed him down, but Sotha Sil immediately seized him by the shoulders. “Serlyn!” he gasped. “You’re alive!”

“What, disappointed?” Serlyn asked, laughing. His face was painted with a red crescent-moon, the features beneath handsome and smiling and so blessedly familiar. It was really him.

“You’re _alive_.” Sotha Sil repeated. “You’re alive… but then…”

Serlyn’s brow wrinkled; his grin faded. “Of course I’m alive.” he replied, perplexed. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Before Sotha Sil could answer, the broad smile returned to Serlyn’s face and he raised a hand in the air, waving. “Kaisa!” he shouted over the crowd. “Kaisa, come here! And bring Udok! You’ll never guess who came!”

Sotha Sil turned around. Pushing through the crowd was his sister—her face was also painted, but she was unmistakeable, with her whole being lit up by her familiar smile. “I told you, Serlyn!” she shouted back. “I told you!” And then she’d arrived and she embraced Sotha Sil with one arm, the other arm being filled with a bundle of blankets, and she was laughing against Sil’s face, and mocking her twin over his shoulder. “I was right, you were wrong! I told you!”

“Kaisa.” Sotha Sil uttered, returning the embrace. “But-- this isn’t…”

“Oh!” Kaisa pulled away from him and, beaming with pride, she thrust her bundle of blankets into his arms.

Sotha Sil stared at her. “What is this?”

“That,” Serlyn said proudly over his shoulder, “Is our baby brother.”

Within the bundle slumbered a child. He couldn’t be older than two or three, with eyes and ears far too large for his narrow little face; his expression was calm, one hand curled up with its long thumb in his mouth. As Sotha Sil held him, he opened his eyes—big, deep blue eyes, the same colour as their father’s—and though Sil was a stranger, the child seemed unafraid, and he reached up for his brother’s face with a spit-covered hand. He looked so much like Sohleh, but he had their mother’s nose— he looked like Sotha Sil.

“His name’s Udok.” Kaisa told him. “Udok, this is your brother, Sil! Say hi, Sil!”

“Hi, Si’…” Udok began, but his large eyes fell closed and he returned his fingers to his mouth. Sotha Sil held him, staring at him as love and relief and confusion fought each other within his chest.

“I don’t understand.” he said when Kaisa took the child back. “I just don’t understand.”

“He’s pretty tired from the festival.” Kaisa explained. “So many people came, and Father’s been showing him off to everyone all day, he’s so proud.”

“But he’s alive.” Sotha Sil replied, shaking his head. “And Serlyn’s alive. You’re all alive and…”

“Of course we’re alive!” Serlyn frowned. “Brother, what’s this talk of death? I’d have written to you if anything befell us!”

“But, your letters..." Sotha Sil struggled to explain. "I thought..."

“You thought?”

“In Mournhold—there was a scamp, and in its den—“

Sotha Sil trailed off. He recalled the last letter he’d received with Ald Sotha’s seal, bearing the most recent news in Serlyn’s own hand. Serlyn had wrote that the fishermen had caught a whale that was to be served during the upcoming Eclipse festivities, and that Udok had set a tablecloth on fire during a tantrum, delighting Sohleh with the display of his great magical potential.  And then Sotha Sil wondered how a mere scamp could intercept each and every letter sent to him without fail, and how in three years nobody had so much as noticed this, let alone caught it, and he wondered how fortuitous it was that the scraps of letters they’d found were concerning in precisely the right way to incite panic, as if they had been deliberately designed.

“Sil?” Serlyn asked, his voice distant. “Sil, what’s going on? What scamp?”

“I think,” Sotha Sil replied, lifting his gaze towards the sky as the eclipse reached its zenith and turned the whole world red, “We’ve been tricked.”

 

***

 

“Form a wedge!” Almalexia ordered. The small force obeyed, weapons raised. “Once the door’s open, let there be no hesitation, no mercy! Let none stand in our way! Stay close to each other, follow me, protect your brothers, and think of Mournhold!”

“For Mournhold!” the Shouts cried.

“Open the door.” she commanded Mora Valyn. Ondusi had, at no small price, provided them with a number of scrolls, claiming that they would unlock any door they encountered. Her shieldbearer obediently gave the scroll to Valyn, who took it with a grim expression that betrayed his disapproval. But he didn’t voice any complaint; he pressed the scroll to the door.

The world was still for a single tense moment. The scroll glowed purple, gears spun within the wall, and the door lumbered open.

“For Mournhold!” Almalexia cried and led the charge in.

The forge was a massive metal room, searing hot even by a Chimer’s standards. Long pits of lava lay open throughout the room, each surrounded by massive, complex machinery, and tables cluttered with scrap metals and half-assembled machines. The surroundings were foreign and baffling in their intricacy, but the soldiers had only a moment to take the sights in before a cry in a foreign tongue caught their attention. A line of warriors stood ready to intercept their invasion, clad in full Dwemer armor and wielding halberds and swords. With a ferocious battle-cry they rushed forwards, towards her, and on instinct she raised her sword and moved to meet them head-on.

The two forces met and the battle began.

The warrior at the head of the line went straight for Almalexia and she met him readily. He swung his sword in a long arc towards her cuirass; she blocked it with her own sword, the ebony of its blade easily deflecting the Dwemer metal, and as her opponent recoiled she lunged forwards and dealt him a heavy blow to the chest that toppled him to the ground. Beside her, Mora Valyn knocked aside another warrior, easily avoiding their clumsy blows in his light armor, and Almalexia came in beside him to intercept a Dwemer Sphere which had come to their foe’s aid. The Sphere was far more nimble than she’d anticipated and before she could block it one of its blades sunk into her cuirass, becoming lodged in the gap between the chestpiece and the pauldron. She seized the gap in its defenses and hacked into the frail wires of its spindly torso—it fell back in a shower of sparks. Her shield-bearer stepped in behind her, deflecting with his tower shield a warrior who’d attempted to catch her from behind, and she dispatched the warrior quickly by running her blade through his neck.

The battle was progressing swiftly and her warriors clearly had the upper hand, but there were yet no wizards to be seen, no Nords—no Chemua. “Move forwards” Almalexia ordered, and her soldiers obeyed, following her lead as she fought deeper into the forge. Another line of Dwemer-armored warriors poured out from behind a nearby machine and Almalexia once again found herself fighting with Mora Valyn and her shield-bearer to either side. There was still no magic, no thu’um to halt them or rally the enemy—a bearded warrior lunged at her and she swerved to the side, then rammed her heavy pauldron into his chest so that he staggered under his own momentum, and when he toppled to the floor Mora Valyn appeared beside her to run his sword through the enemy’s throat.

“Almalexia!” Valyn shouted over the din of screams and clashing metal. “Wait—“  

His next words were lost beneath massive rolling _clang._ A Dwemer spider appeared before them, of the same make as the ones they’d fought before, but this one was gargantuan. It was easily twice the height of the Chimer, its body the size of a carriage, and each one of its eight legs terminated in a blade as large as a shortsword.

The sheer size of the thing caused the army to balk for one brief moment—but Almalexia’s blood was rushing and she rallied her soldiers with a shout, leading them forwards to attack the thing head-on. A deft sweep of her sword severed the cables of one leg and rendered it useless—it swivelled to face her, focusing on her alone, and her shield-bearer barely managed to block the strike it aimed at her torso. “Surround it!” Almalexia shouted, and the Shouts obeyed, forming a circle around it. It paid them no heed as it aimed another blow at Almalexia—its leg gashed her cuirass, causing her to stagger, but her shield-bearer warded off its attacks for the second it took her to recover. “Go for the legs!” she ordered. On its flanks her soldiers hacked at its intricate cables, so Almalexia moved backwards, deliberately attempting to distract it. Her ploy worked—it bore down on her, and she found herself frantically dodging a flurry of stabbing limbs. Her shield-bearer had retreated, a few blows collided with her cuirass—

Suddenly the onslaught stopped. The beast swayed, staggered, and toppled with a deafening _crash_. Its body exploded in a shower of electricity when it hit the ground, and Almalexia yelled as one of the arcs struck her armour and caused her arms below the pauldrons to burn. Others were less lucky— one man was thrown into the air in a blast of sparks. 

Taking a moment to recollect herself, Almalexia walked forwards to survey the corpse of the beast, and the soldiers who’d felled it. No more than a dozen of them had joined the assault, and only one had fallen, having caught the worst of the electrical attack. The air was hot; the room reeked of blood and excrement. 

“My Queen!” Mora Valyn called.

Shaking, Almalexia turned to face him, her brow creased impatiently. “What is it?”

He crouched a few feet away, looking over the warrior they’d slain. The warrior’s Dwemer helmet had been pulled away, leaving his face exposed—a face with ashy brown skin, a full black beard, large dark eyes and black hair and long pierced ears with distinctly pointed tips. Almalexia’s confusion must have been visible, because Valyn shouted to her, “This is a Dwemer.”

Almalexia stared in disbelief. “How could this be?”

“Something’s wrong here!” Valyn insisted. “You need to call a retreat!”

“No!” she stepped back, shaking her head. “Whatever’s going on here, I know Chemua’s behind it! We press on!”

“Almalexia—“

“Shouts, with me!” And she turned and, at a run now, lead the way deeper into the forge.

They met little resistance now, with the Dwemer warriors either defeated or fled, and what few remaining automatons they encountered were easily dispatched by her soldier's nimble blades. They dodged complex mechanisms and powered through traps, following Almalexia’s lead in cutting down opposition without discretion or mercy. Mzithumz was theirs, now—they had only to claim it, and with the knowledge of imminent triumph in mind, they followed the Queen to the final room.

At the end of the forge was a door. It was different from the others they’d encountered—it was smaller, more delicate, its face inscribed with glowing runes of pale blue and jet black. Instinct told Almalexia that this was important; she paused before it, waiting for her army to catch up with her. She touched the surface and found that, even through her glove, it chilled her fingertips. Chemua was waiting behind this door.

Her shield-bearer came up beside her, his breath ragged. “Open the door.” she ordered him quietly.

The door swung open without resistance and Almalexia lead the way through.

Before her was a different world, one that glittered and was made of glass. Strange contraptions of every nature filled the room—some were stationary, some whirred, some rotated slowly, some levitated. They occupied every surface, perched on desks and bookshelves or suspended from the ceiling, so that the whole room seemed to hum with a life of its own. Tall bookshelves occupied one corner of the room, while brass desk stood against the opposite wall, strewn with papers, quills and pots of ink. At the back of the room, a tall figure stood with his eye to some sort of periscope whose opposite end disappeared into the ceiling; he was so transfixed by whatever he saw that he hadn’t even noticed the invasion. Compared to the ugly mess of the battle outside, this room was jarringly silent, and still.

Almalexia held her sword before her and approached the figure. He didn’t respond, nor did he notice her—all his attention was fixed on whatever it was he was observing. She caught his notice by pressing the tip of her sword to his back.

“Where is Chemua?” she demanded.

The figure jerked upright and turned his head towards her. He was also dark-skinned, but unlike the warrior he was well-groomed, with long eyelashes and a beard laden with golden ornaments. “Th chen?” he replied, startled. His tongue was unfamiliar, his voice oddly musical, but words weren’t needed to decipher the confusion on his face.

“Chemua.” Almalexia repeated, more forcefully. “Where is he? Tell me!”

The Dwemer yelped, jerking away from her sword. “We know not, Chemua.” he said slowly. “Not here.”

“Liar!” Almalexia shouted—she moved her blade so that its tip rested in his chest instead. “Tell me where he is, or I shall end your life!”

“Not here. Not here!” the Dwemer insisted—he tried to move away from her but his back struck the wall. “I am Dwemer. I am Bthuand Mzanch. I don’t believe Chemua. I don’t know.”

“The Tonal Architect.” Mora Valyn, having caught up to her, said softly in her ear.

“He’s lying.” she hissed. Her own pulse was deafening in her ears, it felt as if her throat was closing up.

“No Northern men.” said Bthuand helplessly. “This Mzithumz. Is deep folk stronghold. No Northern men, Chemua. _Arkng._ Mercy!”

“Then what’s going on?” Almalexia demanded, though her question wasn’t directed at the Dwemer. Uncertainty finally showing in her face, she looked around, as if her surroundings would give her an answer. “Khizumet’e _told_ me he was hiding here! Has he already left?”

“Almalexia,” Valyn placed a hand gently on her arm. “I think we’ve been betrayed.”

“No!” she shook her head. “No, we haven’t. It’s impossible!”

The dwarf was speaking in incoherent Dwemeris, and the tone of his voice matched the despairing expression on Valyn’s face. She knew the answer, it was right before her, but she couldn’t bring herself to accept it. “Valyn!” she shouted. “He wouldn’t… would he?”

Valyn didn’t answer, and in desperation she turned to Bthuand. “It’s impossible!” she insisted. “It’s impossible. You must be hiding Chemua somewhere. It’s impossible!”

Bthuand only shook his head, and gave her a single word as an answer: “Eclipse.”

 

***

 

“It’s this way.” Vehk told the Provisioner as they ran ever-downwards, through corridors that hadn’t seen use in years. “Before Bthuand decommissioned the torture-chamber it was connected to a decaying section of the stronghold. A cave-in made a passage to an old Velothi tomb. I found the tomb and that’s how I got here. They found me and tortured me and then Bthuand decided he wanted to keep me. Apparently I could understand some Dwemeris and he wanted to teach me.”

The hallways were silent—they’d left the din of the battle behind. The only sounds were their clanging footsteps on the metal floors, their laboured breaths, and Vehk’s voice, shaky and exhausted. Talking took hir gret effort, but ze found hirself babbling, to calm hir nerves and prevent hir from noticing the burn on hir chest, which had grown so painful that ze feared ze’d lose consciousness from the agony of it.

“How awful!” the Provisioner said. “They tortured you?”

“They thought I was a spy. Working for the Queen of Mournhold.”

“Mournhold… this is the city south of Mzithumz? The one you wish to go to?”

“Yeah. They think it’s spying on us. Or, thought.”

“How strange that I didn’t know of this city before your arrival.” pondered the Provisioner, as Vehk guided him around a corner. “How strange that I knew so little of the world at all.”

“There’s lots I don’t know too.” Vehk replied. Ze slowed to a walk as they crossed through a rusted door left long ajar, and then ze paused entirely. They’d entered a large dim room, dusty with misuse. Along one wall was a line of cages, while the rest of it was devoted to hosts of gruesome machines, racks and torture implements whose function was too terrible to imagine. Though ze had no memory of this place (it was the Netchiman’s wife who’d been tortured, ze reminded hirself sternly), it still made hir deeply uneasy; the Provisioner seemed to sense hir disquiet and squeezed hir hand.

“… Shall we continue, then?” asked the Provisioner after an awkward pause.

“Yeah.” Vehk started towards the hallway, but ze hadn’t taken three steps before a sound caught hir ears—echoing in from the hall behind them, the distant sound of voices. “Wait!” ze hissed. Hastily ze seized the Provisioner and dragged him behind the nearest rack, pushing him down into the shadows. He made to ask but ze silenced him with a hand to the mouth.

A couple of voices, having a conversation in idle Aldmeris, drifted down the corridor:

“Are you sure you saw them come down here?”

“I’m sure, I’m sure.”

“It had better be worth it. This place is giving me the creeps.”

“Star-Sung said to get _all_ the Dwemer, didn’t he?”

“But why chase a few runaways? It doesn’t make a difference.”

Two Chimer, clad in leather armour and carrying their swords lazily over their shoulders, drifted into view. They paused at the door, looking over the torture-room with apparent distaste. “Dwemer have been a plague on my House for years.” said one of them, a tall man, with a shrug. “Besides, we’re all alone down here. We can have some fun with these ones.”

“You think they’re down here?” his companion, a gaunt frowning woman, asked.

“Where else could they have gone? Start looking.”

The two mer separated and began to circle the room. The Provisioner clutched Vehk’s arm, pressing close to hir as if he meant to defend hir, but he was shaking and Vehk knew he was as scared as ze was. Ze peeked through the slots of the rack they hid behind—the woman was wandering idly towards them, pausing occasionally to examine a machine with disinterest. Her sword, resting in her hand, glinted in the dim electric light.

“Vel!” the Provisioner whispered against Vehk’s ear. “What are we going to do?”

“Shh!” ze retorted—but too late. The woman looked up and, frowning, began to approach them, looking around with confusion.

Vehk pressed a hand to hir mouth, not daring to breathe lest it make a sound. The soldier was so close that Vehk could have reached under the rack and touched her. She looked over the rack, then stepped to the side—if she turned her head, she’d see them. She took another step—

A hand seized Vehk by the shoulder. “Got them!” declared the man.

“No!” the Provisioner, who'd also been grabbed, cried out, twisting in a futile effort to escape. The man was distracted by his thrashing, and that moment of distraction was enough—Vehk surged upwards, drawing instinctively on Fa-Nuit-Hen’s lessons, and ze twisted hir body around the man’s arm, bearing down on it with hir weight. The move was so unexpected that the man let go of hir and ze immediately flung hirself at his hips in an attempt to grab his sword. This caused him to release the Provisioner, too, and he seized Vehk’s hair with one hand while clutching his sword’s hilt with the other. Vehk wrenched the hand at his sword towards hir and sunk hir teeth into it—blood filled hir mouth and the man screamed—and ze finally managed to wrench the sword from the scabbard, just as the man’s knee rammed into hir chest.

Ze gasped, winded, and stumbled back— the sword was in hir hands and ze swung it wildly at his torso. It hit the man’s side with a heavy thud, but the swing hadn’t enough strength to even pierce the armor, and the man’s confidence was kindled when he saw that ze was clearly untrained in swordcraft. With a demented grin he surged forwards, hands outstretched to grab hir. Desperate, ze held the sword the same way ze’d hold a spear—around the blade—and thrust it into the man’s chest. This time its sharp point penetrated the armor and it slipped easily through the flesh beneath. Ze released the blade and flung hirself to the side, out of the man’s path; he swiveled to pursue hir, adrenalin fueling him, but then he staggered and came to a stop, having noticed the hilt protruding from his chest.   

Frowning in confusion, the man grabbed the sword’s hilt and pulled it out. Then he collapsed.

Panting, hands aching where the blade had cut them open, Vehk stared at the man's body in disbelief. 

“Vel!”

The cry shook Vehk to hir senses. “Nchulac—“ ze began, turning.

The Provisioner—Nchulac—stood a few feet away from hir, a strange and fearful expression on his face. The woman standing behind him, a sword pressed to his throat.

“Vel,” Nchulac repeated, “Run!” And then he was silenced as a blade severed his neck.

In the stories ze so loved, the hero would sacrifice themselves to save a friend, even when all hope seemed lost. But Vehk wasn’t a hero, nor was ze living in hir own stories as Kagrenac had assumed, and at that moment ze felt like little more than an animal, for deep animal instinct kicked in and ze fled. Ze remembered where the passage was now and ze charged towards it as quickly as hir legs would carry hir. Behind hir the woman shouted in Aldmeris—“Stop!”—and then ze heard a pair of footsteps that weren’t hir own, heavy armored footsteps clanging along behind hir. Ze ran faster, ignoring the searing pain of hir chest—hir mind was empty, filled with only the desire to save hirself.

The Netchiman’s wife had been here before. Ze flew over strewn rubble, hir bare feet slapping the rusty metal floor, past once-strong walls now buckling under the weight of the earth. The woman was gaining on hir quickly, but it didn’t matter, because—

Ze came to a yawning hole in the wall, perched a head higher than hir above a pile of rocks and metal. Ze launched hirself at it, leaping as high as ze could—ze managed to grasp the edge. Hir strength was failing now but ze pressed hir feet against the wall and scrambled upwards, desperately upwards. Hir hands slipped, hir own blood making the rocks slick and causing hir to lose grip, but ze dragged hir torso into the hole. Ze was so close, now—was it so small when ze first came through?—ze pulled hirself further, feet scrambling to propel hir forwards—

The woman had caught up to hir and ze felt a blow against hir thigh. Hands seized hir by the ankle, but ze kicked her blindly in the face and she released hir with a yell.  Then ze was finally free, scrambling into darkness on hir belly like a lizard, and ze laughed despite everything, laughed that ze’d escaped.

Then ze stopped, for something on hir body had caught against a rock and sent searing pain through hir leg.

There was no light in the hole, ze was as blind as the Netchiman’s wife had been when they first came through this way, so ze couldn’t see what was wrong. Resting on hir side, ze carefully worked hir hand down hir leg, whimpering as ze touched it, until ze found the source of the problem.

A sword protruded from hir thigh.

Absurdly, hir head foggy, ze wondered if Lorkhan was laughing.

 

* * *

 

 

_The Dwemer were vexed at these words and tried to hide behind their power symbols. They sent their atronachs to remove the egg-image from their cave and place it within the simulacrum they had made of Vivec's mother._

_A Dwemer said:_

    _'We Dwemer are only aspirants to this that the Velothi have._
    _They shall be our doom in this and the eight known worlds, NIRN, LHKAN, RKHET, THENDR, KYNRT, AKHAT, MHARA and JHUNAL.'_

_The secret to doom is within this Sermon._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name 'Nchulac' roughly translates to "King of Fruit"
> 
> It's been quite the year, hasn't it :') Thanks to my wonderful girlfriend (@balfell on tumblr) for proofreading and encouragement
> 
> Happy Holidays!


	10. VIII

_1E413, Frostfall._

_The simulacrum of the netchiman's wife who carried the egg of Vivec within it went back to looking for the lands of the Indoril. Along the journey many more spirits came to see it and offer instructions to its son-daughter, the future glorious invisible warrior-poet of Vvardenfell, Vivec.  
_

 

* * *

 

 

“I am a _god._ ” Vehk declared to nobody in particular. “I am the King of the whole world, and I will _not_ perish here.”

The flight from Mzithumz had left hir ragged. The netchiman’s wife had squirmed through the dark tunnels of the breach for what seemed like eternity, each twist and turn paining her wounded leg (not Vehk’s), putting ache in her (not Vehk’s, not the egg’s) chest. They’d sprinted through the buried tomb with no regards to the leering spirits, and Vehk had kindly given the ailing simulacrum the strength to push open the tomb door, comforting her when she bruised her knuckles against the stones in her desperation to escape their subterranean hell.

Then ze’d stumbled, panting and weeping and hurting, out into a world of ash.

Ash-- it clogged the nose, the throat, the eyes. Vehk wiped at hir eyes and only succeeded in blinding hirself with dust and blood. Ze was, objectively speaking (as befitted the Dwemeri simulacrum of the netchiman’s wife: objectively) what Mephala might have once called “a mess”. Ze was half-naked, all that remained of hir robes were tattered strips of blood-soaked cloth, hir skin was coated in clotting blood and stagnant tomb-dirt. Of course, ze couldn’t see this, what with hir eyes clogged with debris, the observation came more from the indescribable stench of hir own skin. Ze smelled like stale fungus, mummified corpses, rotting flesh, the blood ze was covered in—(no, not blood but copper, that was copper, the simulacrum’s automaton flesh)-- anyway, that copper was gunking hir eyes, so ze couldn’t see. Ze spat on hir fingertips and rubbed the spit over hir lids until hir vision was clear again.

The ash that was falling looked like snow.

Ze had Milk Finger, though ze couldn’t recall where in that mad dash for safety ze’d picked it up. Ze had it and ze was thankful that ze had it, and it became hir leg (how funny, ze thought groggily, a spear, a third leg-- euphemisms taste nicer than skin, don’t they?). Ze was thankful because hir own leg was wounded, a sword had gone in it (lot’s of swords go into hir, don’t they?) and hir whole rump was covered in blood (Molag Bal rewarded hir nicely when that happened)-- and ze couldn’t stand, because hir leg was wounded.

No. Focus. Ze had to stand. Ze braced hirself, before propping hirself on hir good knee, and grabbing the spear with both hands--

And ze screamed, because ze’d forgotten that ze’d cut hir palms, and the sudden movement had ripped open the burns on hir shoulder.

Ze hadn’t noticed it earlier, desperate as ze’d been to escape the stronghold, but now that hir mind was aware of it? It _hurt_.  

“It hurts.” ze sobbed, to nobody in particular. But the sound of hir voice saying it reminded hir of darker times (darker than this, ze wasn’t sure, only the netchiman’s wife knew that), and those fearful recollections made hir afraid of other things. Maybe there were still Nords around, and they’d heard hir scream, and they would think that ze was mocking their mighty thu’um, and would—

Anyway, ze was used to hurting, ze hurt all the time in all sorts of ways, so ze decided that ze would simply ignore this particular hurt, and walk like ze’d planned.

While ze was ruminating on these things, the simulacrum had seized Milk Finger and was clutching it hard. Again ze braced hirself on one knee, and then ze rose to hir feet, leaning heavily on the spear for support. Ze heard the simulacrum sob when ze put weight on the wounded leg, but hir grip on hir spear was tight, so ze didn’t fall. Ze let the simulacrum rest for a moment before taking one shaky step. It held, so ze took another.

“It’s not me.” Vehk said aloud. “It’s the netchiman’s wife. The simulacrum. The netchiman’s wife. Not me. Not Vehk. I’m not wounded.”

Perhaps, as well as a god, ze was a master of tonal architecture, because this denial enabled hir to shuffle along the road in defiance of hir pain, one foot after the other, as if saying ze didn't hurt had made it so. It was just the netchiman’s wife who was hurt, Vehk told hirself. No, the _simulacrum_. Metal was even sturdier than woman-flesh. That’s why ze smelt of copper. It was just dwemer oil leaking all over hir. Those mechanics must have rushed their work-- what sloppy construction! Unworthy vessel. This was no true Dwemer. A true Dwemer could broadcast for help. A Dwemer would have a clan to save them. Did the simulacrum have a clan? Not after the Nords. Well, wasn’t that a shame, but Vehk wasn’t bothered. What did Vehk care for the simulacrum? Of course ze had empathy, but ze hirself wasn’t hurt. Ze was okay. It was just the simulacrum…

(And a Chimer should have a House, Vehk thought in a deep corner of hir mind. Where was Vehk’s House? No House, no name, funny face...)

Ze took hold of hir senses-- ze was like a child, jeering at hirself in hir own head. Didn’t ze know that ze was a god? “I am a god.” ze told hirself, out loud. “Duum… akac.” ze added, in Dwemeris, which made hir giggle, because the Dwemer didn’t believe in gods, and yet they had created one. If ze was truly made Dwemer-- and hir skin was turned dark brownish grey by the ash and the blood, Dwemer coloured, so maybe ze really was--  then did that mean ze didn’t believe in hirself? And then ze took that as proof of hir godhood, because here ze was denying hirself anyway, just so that ze’d be able to continue walking.

The ash was still falling-- it got in hir nose and throat, which made hir cough, which caused hir chest to heave and upset the burn, which made hir sob in pain. Not large sobs, just tiny little whimpers, coming in a rhythm disjointed from that of hir steps. Like the whimpers of a guar who’d given up on escaping its torment but hadn’t yet died. Vehk had seen such a creature once when ze was luring customers near the Ebonheart gates, a pack-guar that had gone lame and was being savagely beaten by a gang of urchins. Vehk had taken pity on the beast and tried to get them to stop, so they beat _hir_ instead, and ze’d fled all the way back to the brothel, and Mephala had given hir a beating anyway, just for being so stupid.

And so hir mind slid down the unhappy path of hir memories.

In a way the ability to lose hirself in memories was a blessing, for when ze was so far removed from hir own body the pain couldn’t stop hir from walking. But hir memories were painful in their own way and so if this truly was a blessing, it was a painful and wretched one designed to torment hir. As was typically the case when a god took interest in hir, ze thought miserably. Was this _his_ influence, that awful Prince whose name ze couldn’t even make hirself think? Did he cause this to happen? Why couldn’t ze be left alone?

… It was hard to say how far ze’d walked when the netchiman’s wife ground to a halt. Ze came to sitting on the ground, leaning on hir side to avoid putting weight on hir wounded leg. It was still bleeding, but the blood came slowly now, just a thin stream of bright red trickling from a brown-grey-crimson crust. The burn upon hir chest, too, had become clotty and ashy, but beneath the gore ze could spot big yellow blisters poking out of hir body like mushrooms on a tree. The more ze looked the more it hurt—

Ze squeezed hir eyes shut. Don’t look, then. It wasn’t hir.

And then there were hoofbeats. Ze lifted hir face to the road, squinting against a shaft of light that had come to pierce the ashfall.

Around a nearby hill appeared an army. A whole line of horses, fringed by guars and people on foot wearing armor-- an army bigger than anything ze’d ever seen, never in hir life had ze witnessed so many people marching together. The horses and guars were dragging carts laden with riches and these too boggled Vehk’s mind in their sheer quantity: big bushels leaking saltrice, cages of squealing bantam guars and clucking chickens, big boxes of glittering crystals, racks of weapons, tools, jewelry-- even miserable human and merish slaves shuffling along in-between the horses, and stacks of fine clothes and glistering silk and shaggy furs, and things so fine and ornate Vehk didn’t even have a word for them-- all these and much more. But the great bulk of the plunder was food, the quantity and quality of which ze hadn’t seen in years, and for a moment ze forgot hir misery in wake of of hir growling stomach.

Ze leaned back, crossing hir arms over hir cramping belly. Ze didn’t recognize any of the banners, as they were all Nordic, but it almost seemed to hir that ze’d seen soldiers like these before. Where, though? Tel Aruhn, or maybe Ebonheart? Ebonheart had never had an army in it, though, so ze was confused as to where ze would have seen soldiers there. But Vvardenfell never had Nord soldiers either. Perhaps ze was imagining something from a different life, or the future-- ze presumed Gods could do that.

Ze squinted, straightening up, using a hand to shield hir eyes from the sun. The core of the column with the biggest banner had already passed, lead by a very big man on a very big horse, and followed by two very pretty elves Vehk figured must be his wives, because all important men took wives and as many as they could get. Ze rose to hir feet and squinted after it. Had ze ever served a man like that in the brothel? Or a Nord soldier? Nords, yes, and soldiers, and just about any other variety of person one could think of. Or, the netchimans wife had served, and she was dead now, so it was no wonder ze couldn’t remember. At least…

A memory swam to mind, and with it, enlightenment! Ze leapt out, tottering, in front of the closest soldier, to share with him hir realization. “The popular notion of God kills happenstance.”

The soldier stopped in his tracks, evidently stunned speechless by this profound wisdom. "... Come again?"

"There is no such thing as coincidence." Vehk explained patiently to the soldier. The word 'guild' swam to mind from somewhere, brought to surface by the soldier's steel cuirass, worn under a dusty green cloak.

"Move it," said the guild-member, his face falling to a scowl. "This is the company of Jarl--"

"Jarl Chemua the Roaring-Heart." Vehk said with him in unison. The soldier's mouth fell open, stunned silent. "There's no such thing as coincidence." Vehk repeated to him. "I'm a God."

This snapped the guild-member out of his revere. "Saying something at the same time is simply a matter of luck." he replied, shaking his head.

Vehk contemplated this carefully, taking a long moment to compose hir argument. Everything hinged upon hir winning this debate—ze had to make hir argument a good one. This was of grave importance, ze knew, and so it was deep gravity that ze raised hir head high and began to speak: "Is not the sudden revelation of corresponding conditions" ze said in a rush, "And disparate elements that gel at the moment of the coincidence one of the prerequisites to being, in fact, coincidental? Synchronicity comes out of repeated coincidences at the low-- Wait!"

But the soldier had stepped around Vehk and was moving on.

Vehk stared at the place he used to be. Far away the other soldiers pointed at hir and chuckled to each other, but in an instant they vanished along with the rest of their army, blurring into the horizon before they were finally swept away in a puff of ash.

Wait, where had that guild-member gone? Vehk blinked at the emptiness before hir. Ze supposed that he was unable to stand up to the eloquence of hir argument; so potent was the truth of hir words that he had simply ceased to exist. The same was probably true of coincidence. Ze smiled, knowing that ze'd protected hir claim to godhood well, because that was probably the important reason for which ze’d had to argue. Then ze tasted tears on hir lips, and realized that somewhere along the line hir wounds had begun to hurt again, and that the pain had made hir cry, without even realizing that ze was crying.

"I'm a God." Vehk said aloud to hirself, to the simulacrum of the netchiman's wife, to the dust left behind by the soldiers. "I can't die. I'm a God and I'm controlling this all." Then ze licked the tears and ash from hir lips, because ze was painfully thirsty.

But there was nothing for it but to head on to Mournhold, so ze clutched Milk Finger tight and shambled on hir way.

 

***  


The squall had hit shortly before dawn. Sheets of icy rain, stinking of sulfur and volcano-ash, had sent the last of Ald Sotha’s revelers scrambling for cover. Despite the predictions of the most optimistic Sothas, the heaping stormclouds proved persistent foes, and rain continued to bucket down throughout the morning.

The interior of the shrine was dark, and despite the thick stone walls the constant hammering rainfall was still audible, filling the air with a heavy, gloomy buzz. Every so soften a gust of wind would rattle the windows or go howling through the tower’s tendrils, causing the whole thing to echo and moan like a waking ghost. In the thick humid air their candles struggled to cast light, and their whole world was closed in, still, solemn and dim.

“... And when I found those letters in the scamp’s hovel, it felt that all my worst nightmares had come true.” Sotha Sil’s voice was low, his head bent over a cup of cooling tea. He and his siblings sat close together in the basement of the family shrine, a space which felt even smaller than usual in contrast with the storm beyond. “I should’ve seen through it, but I was terrified. I thought you were dead.”

“Mm.” Kaisa grunted. Her head was bowed; Udok sat in her lap, bundled up in a blanket, playing with a guar figurine. He at least didn’t seem to notice the gloomy mood.

“I let myself worry about Ald Sotha too much.” Sil admitted. “It’s foolish.”

“It’s not foolish.” said Kaisa. “I feel the same. That’s why I never travel to visit you. I hate being away from home.”

“You’re smarter than I, then, because going between two places is impossible. It’s like my mind can’t decide where to be. There or here? When I’m there, my mind is here, imagining what’s happening-- and they aren’t always pleasant thoughts. I always think about what would happen if some tragedy befell you. I can’t help it. I let myself get distracted by imagined problems,” Sotha Sil paused, sipping at his tea to steady his tongue, “When it seems the true problems were before my eyes all along. Now that I look back on it I should have caught that trap. It was so obvious! Ebonheart couldn’t have fallen without our knowing about it, with or without Cruethys’ blockade. The pieces were all there, I could have predicted House Dres’ treachery. And yet…” he trailed off, looking away as if ashamed.

It was Serlyn’s turn to grunt, disapproving, from where he sat beside his twin sister. “The Great Houses have always squabbled.” he pointed out. “Especially within the arenas of Mourhold and Ebonheart. A Sotha’s place is not to to decipher their ploys for would-be dictators.”

“It’s _my_ place,” Sotha Sil replied, “As Almalexia’s counselor and friend.”

“Yes, but not a Sotha’s, see?” Casting a cautious glance at Kaisa, who was glaring at him, Serlyn hastily added, “I’m not starting quarrels, sis, bite your tongue-- Sehti may be what he pleases, regardless of his House! He’s shown himself willing enough to do so…”

“It was still rude--” Kaisa began.

“A Sotha’s place is in Ald Sotha, with his House, with his family.” Serlyn finished. “That’s all I’m saying. His heart knows this and that’s why he’s been suffering all these years.”

Sil sighed. “I hate to admit that you’re right, Serlyn. Every day I wake up missing my family, and every evening I go to bed wondering-- what’s the point? And in all this time I haven’t found an answer. It gladdens me to have my research, of course, and I love Almalexia, but…”

“Family is the heart of every Chimer.” Serlyn finished for him, consoling. “With no family, there’s no heart.”

Kaisa let out a long sigh. “Are the bonds of family so weak that distance can stretch them? What sort of House is that!”

"The House that Veloth had us make," Serlyn answered, "The Houses of Vvardenfell. Every mer of tradition knows that there can be no survival with no House!"

This only seemed to frustrate Kaisa further. “Houses of Vvardenfell? Oh, don’t start with this, Serlyn."

“I know what I said, Kaisa— _Houses of Vvardenfell_ , Houses like Sotha, who know what it is to live here!"

Kaisa shook her head. “There’s no difference between our House and the mainland Houses!”

“There’s every difference!” Serlyn, incensed, rose to his feet and began to pace. "What do the Great Houses know of family? When have the fat, decadent politicians of Deshaan weathered an ash-storm or raised a spear? They're nothing like us!"

"By Azura, why can’t you go one day without preaching about this?"

"The mainland mer coop themselves up in houses purchased with outlander gold, they meet the challenges of Dagon by erecting walls and cowering! Those cowering… cowards! When has Mournhold sent _its_ brothers to _us_ as our counsellors?”

“Damn it, Serlyn, stop speaking like this!”

“You’re just scared! Scared to admit that the Mainland mer would never send aid to us as that we were alone until Hanin--”

“NOT another word to me about HANIN!” Kaisa exploded, rising to her feet as well. “You and father are _idiots_ for listening to that--”

“Hanin speaks the _truth_ and you know it!”

“If he speaks the truth,” Kaisa retorted, “Why haven’t you told Sil about it in your letters?”

Sotha Sil took this opportunity to butt in. “Yes, I’d like to hear who Hanin is!”

But Serlyn’s face contorted into rage. “How _dare_ you read my letters to Sil! You thieving fetcher!”

“I read them because I knew you were lying! I _knew_ , Serlyn, that you lied to him about leaving that cult! That you lied about Hanin, that you lied about _everything_ , because you know very well that Sil would never have allowed this!”

“Really? Because all I know of Sil is that he’d let his loins lead him to Mournhold rather than do his duty here!”

“Hey!” Sil interjected, “That’s not _remotely_ what--”

“Hypocrite!” Kaisa shouted. “If it wasn’t for Hanin’s red wives you wouldn’t even--”

But she was interrupted when Udok, still held in her arms, burst out crying. Her voice softened and she pulled him up, rocking him. “Oh, shh, Udok-- Look what you’ve done, brother!”

“Kaisa,” Sotha Sil said, “Who is Hanin? What cult is this?”

Serlyn, bristling with anger, balled his hands into fists. “Hanin is the man who will save us all.” he said curtly. “No matter what our idiot naive sister thinks!”

“Hanin!’’ Udok shrieked. “Ata!”

“Udok!” someone replied from the doorway.

The three turned around. Sohleh stood at the entrance, evidently unaware of the argument which had been taking place; he bore a gentle smile, and as they stared he walked over and lifted the sobbing child from Kaisa’s arms. “My son!” Sohleh crooned, rocking him, “There, there. I’m here, Ata’s here.”

“Ata.” Udok cried, clutching his tunic.

Sotha Sil took the moment’s pause to look at his siblings. Kaisa’s face was bright red, angry tears shining in her eyes, while Serlyn’s brow was creased—Sil had never seen such a dark expression on his brother’s face. As he watched, Serlyn turned back to the fire, his shoulders hunched. “Father.”

“Ata,” Kaisa echoed, using the Chimeris word.

“I heard raised voices.” Sohleh said, keeping his voice soft so as not to perturb Udok, who was already calming down. “What’s going on?”

“Who’s Hanin?” Sil asked.

He didn’t really need an answer to confirm that Hanin was a dirty secret; his father’s face told him everything. Udok grasped Sohleh’s cheek and pulled, turning his unsettled frown into a comically lopsided grimace, and he took that opportunity to walk over to Serlyn, joining him by the hearth. “I don’t, ah, believe I’ve ever heard--”

“He knows, Ata.” Kaisa said bluntly.

“Hanin?” Udok asked, looking around.

“... Hanin.”  Sohleh sighed.

The room fell silent, and the storm whistling outside seemed louder and more oppressive than ever. Sotha Sil, tense in his seat, looked between his father and his brother, waiting for an answer to the uncomfortable question. The only one of them who made a sound was Kaisa, who was sniffling into her own hands, trying to mute her angry tears.

“Well!” Sohleh said finally. “There’s many words I could say about Mordrin Hanin, but I don’t think they’ll be necessary.”

“Won’t they.” Sil asked, doubtful.

“Of course they won’t!” and from behind the tiny head of Sil's baby brother, Sohleh smiled. “Because it’s about time that you met him yourself.”   

 

***

 

Once upon a time Vehk had lived in Holomayan. Once upon a time a group of priests had spat at hir and cursed the stench of Molag Bal on hir flesh. Once upon a time ze’d been too dumb to learn the lessons, hir spells falling flat, hir conjuration turning to atrocities, hir healing becoming putrid and making everything worse, but within the netchiman’s wife Vehk, real Vehk, had learned a little something about a few things, and what ze learned, what ze mused upon now, was that it was bad when your wounds no longer bled red.

Vehk’s wounds weren’t bleeding at all now. The gaping chasm in hir thigh only oozed out pale yellow gunk. Thick, viscous, pale liquid, like semen left on the wall without being cleaned for too long. Like the treasures ze found hiding under a brothel bed. Like monk spit. Hir breast and arm where they’d been hurt had turned into dreugh-shell, crusty and flaky and hard. Hir hands had solidified into claws.

Dreugh. Ocean. Ze was so thirsty.

At least it didn’t hurt any more. Nothing did. Vehk had learned very, very young that once you get hurt enough it just stops hurting. Even the netchiman’s wife had forgotten how to cry after a while.

Crying? Crying. Tears. Ze was thirsty.

When did babies learn to cry? When did they learn to think? Why was ze thinking now? Why was ze alive? Why did ze suffer? How old was ze?  Where did ze come from? Where were the dreugh right now? Where were the crabs? Where was Nchulac? Would ze ever see the ocean again?

Ocean. Dreugh. Ze was so thirsty--

Hir feet landed in water and ze slipped.

Ze fell to hir knees in the middle of the road. The puddle was shallow and putrid but ze scooped up a handful of water and drank anyway-- ze gagged, because it was disgusting, and only managed to force down another few handfuls before hir body rebelled and ze retched everything up. Hir hands wouldn’t obey hir, ze was shivering and burning up all at once. Ze flung hirself into the puddle, trying to rub some of the crusty bloody ash from hir overheating skin, but all ze succeeded in doing was smearing wet guar shit into the wounds that no longer hurt.

Sweat. Salt. Semen. Cracked lips. Thirsty.

Ze was hot, ze was cold. Hir limbs didn’t want to listen to hir.

The netchiman’s wife was breaking down.

Golden tendons rusting in ash.

Ash. Ata. Father. Netch. Bal. Stone. Milk.

Ze had never been so thirsty.

Ze wasn’t alone.

A spirit floated over hir, barely visible in the pale sun. Ze lifted hir head and squinted at it-- it looked like a woman, if a woman could look the way ze felt after being used, which was to say transparent. It rippled against existence as if ze could only see it by the way it disturbed the world behind. For a moment ze was in hir own body again and ze forced hirself out of the putrid water, rising up on shaking legs, leaning heavily on Milk Finger in vain hopes that ze wouldn’t collapse. The spirit watched hir; it looked, ze thought, like someone had captured the light that danced on the ocean's floor, and formed it into the prettiest being they could imagine. Ze met its gaze, and if hir face hadn’t been completely covered in ash, ze thought it would have seen hir blush.

“You are an egg.” said the spirit.

“The egg of a God.” Vehk replied with a weary wave of hir hand.

 “Yet to be born.” the spirit agreed.

“What are you?”

“Like you, I tremble at tones.”

“Nchardch.” ze uttered in surprise; ze couldn’t remember the Aldmeris word for it.

The spirit nodded in affirmation. “If you are to be born a ruling king of the world,” it told hir, “You must confuse it with new words. Set me to pondering.”

Vehk wanted to protest. The netchimans wife’s throat was no longer parched, moistened at least by the foul water and hir vomit, but the air was ashy and humid and every breath hurt hir in so many different awful ways. There were no words to summarise a world which was itself intolerable and confusing. Trying to put words to the absurd was in itself absurd-- maybe it felt that way because hir words were oozing out of hir leg along with the rest of hir.  Ze was hir words and hir words, like hir soul, were nothing but stinking old spent seed, trickling out of every misplaced hole.

When ze was three ze’d curled up by the warm window with a stolen candle and sucked in the nice scent and watched the rain wash away the whole world beyond the cracked glass and dreamed of going to the capital where Ayem ae Sehti ae Vehk and wished for a drink for hir sore throat.

“The world.” ze whispered.

* * *

 

 

_“Very well,” Vivec said, “Let me talk to you of the world, which I share with mystery and love. Who is her capital? Have you taken the scenic route of her cameo? I have-- lightly, in secret, missing candles because they're on the untrue side, and run my hand along the edge of a shadow made from one hundred and three divisions of warmth, and left no proof.”_

 

* * *

 

A pair of big warm hands cradled Vehk’s cheeks and forced open hir mouth. The candle fell into hir lap. Hir father poured cold milk from the pitcher and down hir throat, holding hir face until ze drank it all, until hir belly was full and hir throat was soothed and cool.

But a storm came and washed away the whole world, Bal Fell and sixteen years of hir life, and ze lay in the mud on the road to Mournhold and let the rain turn the ash on hir skin to paste.

 

***

 

The rain had slowed to a drizzle, with the bulk of the storms having moved south, and the midday sun had begun to pierce the thinnest of the clouds as they dispersed. Sotha Sil had been instructed to wait at the pier and despite his misgivings he’d obeyed, standing where the old warped wood met the sand. The transition from lagoon to village was marked by a long wide beach known informally as the “fisherman’s row”, where, when the need arose, half the village might come together to aid in pulling the largest catches from the sea: usually whales, but sometimes a deughic coral-construct or, in the summer months, a writhing net filled with slaughterfish, dripping blood as they spent their last moments devouring each other.

Today no whales or coral marked the row; instead it was dotted with the skeletons of bonfires, and whalebones rising out of the sand like the masts of beached sailboats. A short distance away the cap of an Emperor Parasol lay on its side, no longer filled with stew but with murky rainwater-- the smell of soggy mycelium and rotting food it emitted, mixed with the tinge of charcoal, reminded Sil of something unpleasant enough that he had to force himself not to balk at the memory. He gagged when he realized that his home smelt like Bal Fell. 

“Sotha Sil, I presume?” A gentle voice roused him from his thoughts.

Sotha Sil flinched and turned around. “Mordrin Hanin.” he replied curtly.

Hanin, to Sil’s surprise, could have been any wizard in Mournhold. He was well-groomed and well-nourished, a strong chimer of middling age with long salt-and-pepper hair braided down his back. The only truly notable thing about him were his clothes-- lavish robes, a pair of heavy daedric pauldrons, a daedric staff, the sort of ostentatious displays of wealth usually reserved for a Great House Council. He hadn’t come alone, either; an ashlander stood behind him, short and scrawny, dressed in fine glass armor. Hanin caught Sil’s gaze move to his companion and he introduced him quickly: “Duke Marvani Kh’utta, my general.”

“Your general?” Sil asked. “Are you at war?”

“Vvardenfell is a land perpetually at war.” replied Hanin. “Walk with me.”

Sotha Sil nodded and they set off up the beach, steering east of the town and towards the vegetation that lay beyond. Sotha Sil remained stubbornly silent, so Hanin took the opportunity to begin his own spiel. "How did you weather last night’s storms? Your father tells me they're called Dagon's Squalls here. A novel name for them! In my home to the north, near Oad Velothi, the sailors call them Nord-drowners. No disrespect, Kh'utta... Kh'utta's father was a Nord. Olmgerd the Outlaw, a pirate and a King's bastard and the finest man I've ever had the pleasure of sailing with. But I've heard you yourself are familiar with Nordic company. You serve Mournhold, don't you?"

"Mournhold is controlled by Chimer currently." Sotha Sil replied carefully. "But I do have experience with the Nords, yes.”

“As we all have had experience with them. You would be hard pressed to find a Chimer unmolested by human hands. Even on Vvardenfell, though we’ve resisted total occupation, we have had to tolerate the yoke of Ysmir which Great House Dagoth so keenly slid onto our necks. But such is the nature of Great Houses-- compromise and collusion…”

“Were you the one who convinced my Father to divorce House Dagoth?” Sotha Sil asked bluntly.

The direct question made Hanin smile. “I aided him in making the decision that was best for his House.”

Sotha Sil bit his tongue; it was the only way he could refrain from replying, and he was reluctant to get into conflict right away. They rounded the sand-dune which separated Ald Sotha from the wilds beyond, and Sil was alarmed to see that at the edge of the dune a Daedric structure had erupted from the ground. It was only small yet, a flat platform surrounded by thin jagged pillars which came together at the top in a way that resembled the skeleton of an ashlander’s yurt; on the upper part of the frame vegetation had been layered to form a roof, while red hanging tapestries with vivid and complex decorations formed the walls on every side. It was ornate compared to the rest of Ald Sotha's structures, and by the banners which hung from it and the purpose which Hanin strode towards it Sotha Sil surmised that this was where the cultist had been spending his time. Foreboding overcame him-- he dropped a step behind Hanin and Kh’utta, watching them warily as they approached the gazebo.

"You are in no danger, Serjo." Hanin said, as if sensing his apprehension. "In fact, it’s we who's kept your family safe in your absence. Why would we harm you now?"

Sotha Sil looked at the banners hanging from the structure before them. "That's Mehrunes Dagon's sigil." he observed. "'Dagon Ae...'"

"Dagon Ae Vvarden-Fell." Hanin read the Daedric runes aloud.

"Interesting claim."

"Lorkhan ae Nirn, Chimer ae Mer Lorkhania. Dagoth Ur ae Dagon, Chimer Dagothi ae mer Dagonia." Hanin smiled, leading Sotha Sil up the stairs and into his dwelling. "Lorkhan is Nirn and the Chimer are the mer of Lorkhan. Dagon is Red Mountain...."

"So the Chimer of Vardenfell are the mer of Dagon.” Sotha Sil finished.

“You already understand.” Hanin sounded pleased. "Please, sit. Do you drink tea? This is trama root brew; bitter compared to the honey of the Nords, but a potent magical stimulant."

"I'll pass." Sotha Sil replied. The interior of the gazebo was shady and cool-- the bottom half of the tapestry walls were left open so that wind could circulate. In the middle was a soft brown rug of woven fiber, laying beneath a low wooden table surrounded by plush pillows. Sotha Sil sat on one of the pillows and looked around the dwelling. Though the ‘walls’ were largely concealed by stacks of books on spindly bookshelves and tall narrow urns, it was they that proved the most interesting feature of the dwelling-- they depicted Mehrunes Dagon, or so Sil presumed, interwined with various aspects of Vvardenfell’s geography. In one he belched forth lava from the crater of Red Mountain; in another he threw stormclouds along Azura's coast, while a third showed him stomping about Molag Amur. Sotha Sil was still examining them when Hanin sat opposite him and placed a hookah in the centre of the table.

"Dagon ae Vvardenfell." Hanin repeated. "It's a truth that every mer of Vvardenfell has known. Ours is the land of natural disaster; would not our god, too, be the god of natural disaster? Even the Temple admits as much. They say Dagon represents the harsh land we inhabit. But they are mainlanders, and they can't account for why Dagon is so much more present in our lives than the supposed Good Daedra are..."

"I've only heard such teachings from Ashlanders." Sotha Sil remarked. "Yet you don't look like an ashlander."

“Mordrin is no ashlander.” Kh’utta interrupted from where he stood guard at the doorway.

“Thank you, my friend.” Hanin replied. “I would say, Sil, that your association of my words with the ashlanders simply shows how divorced from your roots you've become. It used to be that every daedric colony recognized the gulf between the Temple of the Mainland and the reality of Vvardenfell.”

“You seem to resent Vvardenfell.”

"Oh, quite the opposite! Our land is... holy. It is a land of infinite hardships and infinite blessings. There is a reason so many have been ensnared by its unforgiving brutality, its countless secrets. Dagoth Ur—the Red Mountain, to use the name given to it by your Nords— is the heart of our race. And what is Dagoth Ur but the tower-temple of Mehrunes Dagon, god of eruptions?"

"There are volcanoes in Stonefalls too."

"You speak of Ash Mountain, or the spire of Kragenmoor, perhaps? These are also temples of Lord Dagon, residencies of his generals Balreth and Sadal. The mainlanders fear and hate them, even though it is their gift of ash that fertilizes Deshaan! What could be a more perfect emblem of the mainlander's folly? But it is the Temple's fault-- the temple preaches fear and hatred of the very structures which nourish us..."

Hanin paused and inhaled from the hookah, then offered it to Sil; Sil waved it away wordlessly. He didn't trust that Hanin wouldn't try to poison him. Of course, to smoke one’s own poison was absurd, but this whole situation was absurd already. If he’d told a childhood version of himself that he would one day be discussing the Four Corners in his very own home, the home of Azura's most devout House, he’d have thought himself soul-sick. How could Sohleh allow this?

"You haven't been persuaded yet." Hanin observed. "But you also don't understand how it is that your family has come to agree with me. Perhaps you're ashamed of the truth: that it was Mournhold's theft of you that opened your brother's eyes to the treachery of the city-states."

Sotha Sil narrowed his eyes. "I am not an object to be stolen."

"No, but stolen you were anyway, and the price of your theft was paid in blood." Hanin inhaled from the hookah, then spoke, vapor wafting past his lips. "Do you want to know what happened to Bal Fell?"

Sil felt his heart stop. He was unable to answer with words, but the expression on the face must have given the answer regardless, because Hanin bowed his head and began to speak.

"Kh'utta's spies are populous around here, and they were able to inform me of the events. It seems that a Dwemer king-contender by the name of Dumac arrived in nearby Mzahnch and activated the settlement there. He began to amass an army of automatons, preparing for a strike on Ald Sotha. Sotha Sohleh was terrified. He sent petition to the Telvanni, to no avail. Then he sent petition to Mournhold-- again, he received no reply. The politicians of the Great Houses had abandoned House Sotha.

“But then, when it seemed an attack was nigh, he was approached by a simple netchiman. This netchiman proposed an unthinkable deal: an army of dremora for the sacrifice of Bal Fell. Molag Bal was eager to expand the territories of Bal Ur, Sohleh was told. Bal Fell would be an excellent addition his dominion.

“Sohleh looked at his son Serlyn, and his daughter Kaisa, and he looked at his wife and his nephews and nieces and cousins, and he looked at Ald Sotha’s fishermen and its wooden huts and its magelights twinkling against Azura’s uncaring sky. He looked with love at the thriving home of the House you had abandoned. And he made the choice that he, as a mer of Vvardenfell, had no choice but to make. He took Molag Bal's hand."

Hanin offered forth the hookah again, but this time Sil couldn't even move to deny it. He thought that he could smell old smoke; he couldn't see the gazebo any more, only a ruined village, a knife in his chest, a child bride sleeping atop him in a hammock.

After a long moment of silence Hanin spoke gently, as if to reassure. "After young Serlyn came to join us, a hurricane wiped the colony at Bal Fell off the map. We worshipers of Dagon do not tolerate the acolytes of Molag Bal any more than we tolerate the falsities of the mainland Temple."

"And the Dwemer?" Sil asked hollowly.

"They departed and moved north. I believe they later struck the Nords at Dunmeth Pass-- but that is little concern of ours. Nord or Chimer or Dwemer, whoever rules the mainland has never seemed to care for the wellbeing of the Mer Dagothi." Hanin sat back, clasping his hands. "Your father realized this when he was snubbed by Mournhold and had to pay in Bal Fell's blood. Your brother realized this when his childhood idol was taken to be an Indoril lapdog. I tell you this in hopes that it will not take a tragedy to make you understand as well. House is everything, Sil; listen to your family and realize where the corners of your House lie!"

Sotha Sil closed his eyes, inhaled…

And raised his hand. "Stop. Stop talking.”

Hanin, apparently unaccustomed to rudeness, fell silent in surprise. Sotha Sil opened his eyes and placed both hands upon the table.

"I don't care about your philosophy.” he said. “The affairs of the Daedric Princes couldn't concern me less. I may disagree with my family, but I have no interest in debating the matter with you."

Hanin cocked his head; then he sat back, looking at Sil carefully, his demeanor suddenly changing from that of a fatherly priest to that of a calculating merchant. “Very well.” he replied. “Why speak with me, then?”

“You said you’re protecting Ald Sotha. What do you receive in return?”

“I receive a number of things that interest me.”

“Such as?”

“Such as a promise that you would obtain for me a mask.”

Sotha Sil frowned. “A mask?”

“A mask that was stolen from me by the hero Indoril Lexival over a hundred years ago. My information suggests that it remained in Mournhold, possibly entombed by his side.” Hanin stood and walked to a bookshelf, retrieving a small leather-bound journal which he offered to Sil. “It’s drawn on the first page.” he continued as Sil cracked open the aging cover. “It’s Daedric, bearing the visage of a tusked orc-- it’s made of a distinctive malachite-ebony alloy, so… you look surprised?”

Sotha Sil, holding the journal, ran a finger down the page. “I’ve seen this mask.”

Hanin’s own surprise crossed his face. “You have? Is it in Mournhold?”

“Well, it was shattered.”

“Shattered!”

“Almalexia wore it when she fought Chemua. It was broken in that fight.” Sotha Sil offered the journal back to Hanin. “She told me it belonged to her mother’s husband. Indoril Lexival. It had to have been that mask.”

“And it’s broken.” Hanin muttered an oath and stood from the table. “Broken… Malacath take your meddling mistress. She’s caused me a great deal of strife.”

Sil smiled wryly. “She does that for a lot of people.”

“Silence. The shards of the mask—are they still in Mournhold?”

“They are, as far as I’m aware.”

“Oh. Good!” Hanin pressed his hands together. “Then your task is simple. Reclaim the pieces of the mask and deliver them to Anudnabia.”

“Anudnabia? A shrine? That’s near Tel Aruhn, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. In Anudnabia resides a forge and its smith, Hilbongard Rolamus. He should be able to repair what your master wrought.”

Sil hesitated, considering the prospect. “And if I refuse your task?”

Hanin simply smiled. “Then I would say to you Chimer ae Ruma. A Chimer is his House. Your failure would be the failure of your House… and Mehrunes Dagon does not forgive failures.”

 

***

 

Where the road between Narsis and Necrom met the road between Ebonheart and Mournhold there was a gap in the hills called Obsidian Gorge, a pass that had borne the brunt of one thousand years of war but was in too important a position to be allowed to die. Here merchants and travellers stopped to rest and enjoy the amenities provided by other resting merchants and travelers, and to buy pretty stones discovered by the miners who scoured the nearby rocks for iron and ebony, and to share the latest news. With Ebonheart embroiled in civil war the Gorge had become an especially messy junction, because whoever controlled it controlled passage between Morrowind’s two city-states. It used to be controlled by the Ra’athim, who used it to prevent any Dres and any Nords from crossing to or from Mournhold, but a few nights ago the Dres and the Nords had pierced through the blockade, because they wanted to sack Mournhold. But then the Ra’athim had ambushed the Dres on their way back and stolen their plunder, and there was a great fight, and their Tongue summoned a poison rain _and_ an ash-storm, but the soldiers were so tired from sacking Mournhold that they couldn’t chase off the Ra’athim, so they left with much of their plunder but not all of it, and the Ra’athim got their Gorge back. And so wars go on.

All this information flowed in one of the netchiman’s wife’s ears and promptly out the other. The nuances of politics seemed pointless even as ze shambled through their physical manifestations. What did it matter to hir who lay claim to the rocks around hir? Ze was the Ruling King of the world, god of them all, and who in particular lay claim to the path ze walked upon made no difference to hir. Who were the Ra’athim, the Dres, Chemua, Mournhold, Mora? Who was the netchiman’s wife?

Eyes turned to look at hir when ze entered the camp, but not many. War was a hideous construct and it was not uncommon to see wounded and bleeding refugees along the road. The resting merchants that stared at hir now did so because they mistook hir for a wastrel, or a minstrel, or a beggar, or an animated corpse. That was okay because Vehk understood that humility was necessary. Ze must appear as the lowest of the low in order to understand hir new kingdom. The simulacrum of the netchiman's wife was hir carriage, not hir being, so any judgement passed upon hir did not actually apply to Vehk the God who resided within her in secret. The oil crust on its leg and the rusting shell of its carapace was merely distraction to distract the common man. Rust. Blood. Only Milk Finger was authentic and that beautiful spear was as regal and perfect as the staff of a King. Well, ze was a king, wasn’t ze? Even if ze only looked like a shambling heap of scrap metal. Even if the fever was making hir poor simulacrum break down.

Ze stopped in the shadow of the cliff. Here groundwater trickled from a crack in the rocks, and soft spongy moss grew beneath that trickle, lapping up the nourishing milk of the earth. Vehk pressed hir lips to the moss, sucking earthy liquid from its coils. This made hir remember Mephala and remember sucking liquid from the spongy hair between her legs; ze pulled back and vomited up pure bile because ze had nothing else within hir to vomit up. Then ze remembered that ze was still very thirsty and ze leaned in and drank water out of the moss until ze was sated. After that, ze realized ze was hungry, so ze pulled a handful of moss off the rock and ate it. Then ze stabbed the rest with Milk Finger and Mephala fell to the ground dead, but when ze looked again ze saw that it was Voryn Dagoth, and ze became so dizzy in hir confusion that ze wasn't able to make it two steps away before falling face-first into the grass.

"Oh, dear." Voryn Dagoth rose out of the grass and poked hir with his foot. "Are you alive?"

"You're dead." ze replied. "Don't speak to me, ghost. You're dead."

"What's that?" One of Mephala's daughters manifested from thin air and approached hir, a beautiful fair chimer whose hair and skin were the color of milk. "Oh, is it dead?"

"Close enough to it." said Voryn sadly.

"Oh, poor creature." said the whore. "Stay back, though."

"What's going on over here?" someone unfamiliar asked.

"Some poor beggar's collapsed—Oh, Moraelyn, don’t go near it! It might have plague!"

"Go speak to father, Ili, he’s looking for you. I'll take care of this."

Someone lifted Vehk out of the grass and propped hir up against something hard and wooden. Calloused fingers wiped the ash from hir eyes. Ze squeezed hir eyes shut, trying to push them away, calling out for Voryn in a whisper, but it was to no avail, and then ze yelled because ze couldn't find Milk Finger, and also because the movement had hurt hir leg badly. Hir eyes watered so much that fluid weighed hir lids open and through a blur of tears ze saw that hir savior was made of ten thousand facets of colour, and he was perfect in all of them.

"Are you okay?" asked the man.

"Is or is not is a statement of certainty." Vehk argued in a mumble. "This world is fluid and shaped with thought. Everything is simultaneously both things."

The man wrinkled his brow in perplexity. Vehk cast a glance at his companions, the Dwemer and the sex-seller, who had ignored their dismissal and were watching from a distance. "Certitude is for the puzzle-box logicians and girls of white glamour who harbor it on their own time." ze said, sneering at them to indicate that hir words were directed at them. "I am a letter written in uncertainty."

The man smiled, a perfect expression upon his perfect face. "You poor suffering soul."

"I don't suffer. I am a God, Kagrenac has proclaimed such."

But the man's reply was to take from his pocket a hard, round object, pale pink. He cracked it in half and pressed it, crimson juice running down his hands, into Vehk’s open palms, where the juice mingled with hir ash and hir blood. Ze brought it close to hir face and admired the clusters of dark seeds nestled between pale strips of flesh. It was a model of the spiral skein, ze thought, or perhaps of the Aurbis, though ze could only remember the Dwemer words for those things. Ze searched for the Aldmeris word and uttered: "An astrolabe."

"A pomegranate." the man corrected hir.

Ze laughed. "Yes, I know! The slave labor of the senses is as selfish as polar ice, and worsens when energies are spent on a life others regard as fortunate."

"You’re soul-sick. Stay with us the night. You need food and rest.”

"No!" ze stood, remembering what Kagrenac had told hir-- that this life was designed by hir and that ze had made it wretched in order to become a god. What had seemed so unbearably awful just moments before suddenly made sense. "To be a ruling king I will have to suffer much that cannot be suffered! And to weigh matters that no astrolabe or compass can measure."

Ze understood the truth of the world, and day became night, and ze saw everything from a great distance. Ze wouldn't remember running when ze set out once more for Mournhold, nor would ze remember the kind faces of those who had tried to help hir.

Ze would, however, remember always the way pomegranate tastes when mingling with blood.

 

 

***

 

_Dear Sil,_

Almalexia paused. The quill in her fingers trembled; a half-droplet of ink budded from the tip. After a long moment she dashed out that line and wrote a different one:

_To Serjo Sotha Sil,_

She’d overloaded the pen, the letters were thick and blocky. She smudged her thumb over the wet ink, creating a messy black smear to hide the words, and below them she scratched out a single, shaky rune:

_Seht._

The quill fell from her fingers and landed noiselessly on the parchment. Her fingers had ceased to work; her whole body froze, the willpower seeping from her arms.

She couldn’t write this letter. What could she possibly say to him?

She’d driven her soldiers as fast as she could and yet they still arrived too late—they’d hastened home and been met with flames. While Almalexia had played at invader, an invasion of a larger scale had occurred behind her back, but there was no glory for Mournhold in its wake and the only plunder had already left te eleven gates.The Nords had been as ruthless as they’d been thorough. The beautiful public gardens had been torched, its homes had been looted without discrimination, its holy ancestral tombs stripped and desecrated. Even the temples where the homeless sheltered weren’t spared from Nordic retribution, and wherever riches couldn’t be found they’d taken slaves instead.

From where she now sat in the palace Almalexia could see across the entire city. It was daytime, and an incoming ash-storm stifled the light so that the world beyond was cast in a pale golden glow. The flames of the attack had been quenched, only to be replaced by a different sort of fire; throughout the city burned funeral pyres, each marked by a thin tendril of smoke, where the bodies of the victims were being sent through Padomay’s door.

Almalexia took a deep breath and picked up her quill, placing the nib to the paper.

_We were deceived. While our guards were away assaulting Mzithumz Chemua attacked Mournhold. Dres Khizumet’e--_

“The Dres,” a Shout had gasped when they intercepted his flight from the city. “The Dres ordered us to open the gates and then the Nord’s army came through. We tried to resist but the other gates--”

“Why did you obey?!” Almalexia had demanded, shouting above screams, above the sound of her pulse in her ears.

“Because Khizumet’e was placed in charge!”.

Her hand shook, smudging the name to illegibility.

_… Dres Khizumet’e betrayed us. House Dres is undoubtedly allied with the Nords. I believe their motivations were to gain an advantage over the Ra’athim attacking Ebonheart. I believe this because--_

Among the chaos Almalexia had ran to the palace and found it sacked. The furniture had been overturned and looted, her tapestries torn. When she’d flung open the door to her chambers she’d been met with chaos. Mournhold’s crown was broken in half on the floor, her bedsheets were ripped and blood-splattered, the corpse of her elderly steward lay beheaded at the foot of her bed. When she sat on the edge of the mattress and looked over the ruin with meditative horror, she’d found a jeweled ring with ‘Ra’athim’ engraved upon the band, and between its emeralds a snagged strand of rust-red hair.

… _Because they took Ilinalta Ra’athim. I don’t believe they intended to take the city. They only wanted to raze it. Chemua wanted revenge. And he found it._

In its thousand years Mournhold had never been sacked. Not once, until now. Now it was scorched, its people had been brutalized, its duchess had been taken from its Queen’s own chambers. The ink blurred on its paper and it took a moment for Almalexia to realize that her tears had made her writing run. As if the floodgates had broken she set her quill to paper and began a frantic scribble:

 _Gods forgive me. Gods and the people of Mournhold forgive me. Seht, you’ve failed me as a counselor. How could you let me think I was protecting us all from him? I thought myself a hero when all I did was turn his wrath on them instead of me. I would beg each spirit for forgiveness if I weren’t too ashamed to show my face. How could I have failed? What lesson were the Three trying to teach me with this cruel joke? They took Heigl, they took Ilinalta, they even killed my steward, they took_ you _, my commanders won’t look at me. People have died and for what? For my own weakness. You were meant to be my counselor. How could you let me believe I was a hero at all? I’m n…._

Her tears fell too fast for her to see the parchment, so she sat back and wiped furiously at her face. When her eyes were cleared she leaned forwards and scratched out the last paragraph with long ugly strokes, rendering a chunk of paper a sopping black mess. She took a deep breath and carefully began underneath it:

_But there is hope. We’ve occupied Mzithumz and made it our outpost. Hasten back to Mournhold, my friend, for I’ve a gift you’ll find interesting._

With that she put down the paper, wiped her eyes, and departed the room.

The castle was still a mess, as Almalexia had ordered all rebuilding efforts focus on the city first. Luckily the Nords hadn’t been able to do as much damage as they could have in the few hours they had to run amok-- by all accounts they’d been more focused on pillaging than destruction, and the fires that had raged throughout the city had, in an ironic twist of fate, done far more damage to the younger Nordic structures than the traditional Velothi buildings, most of which were made with stone instead of wood. Indeed, the castle—painstakingly built from that enduring ebony ore which Barfok had once praised-- had borne little structural damage, and the chaos within consisted mainly of smashed windows and broken furniture.

The throne room, which remained the customary centre of operations, was the only room in which cleaning had been embarked upon in earnest; most notably the remnants of the massive war-table had been lugged out, hacked up, and distributed as firewood for the funeral pyres. Among the incomprehensible scale of the losses suffered Almalexia felt guilty that the table even counted among the deaths she grieved. It was only natural she should feel sad about it, she consoled her guilty conscience—she’d learned to read on that table. A lifetime ago she’d sat on a Jarl’s lap and connected the words in stories to the carvings in its surface, tracing out pictures of the clever fox and the serpent she’d mistaken for Boethiah.

How ironic, she thought once again, that the Nords had been the ones to burn their own fingerprints from Mournhold’s flesh.

Within the throne room, Mora Valyn stood at the makeshift council desk, poring over reports detailing the destruction of the city. He hardly looked up as she entered and collapsed in a chair next to him. “How bad is it?” she asked.

“Serjo Almalexia. How are your burns?”

“My shoulders are fine, Valyn. Tell me how my city is.”

Valyn hesitated. “… Bad.”

Almalexia pressed a hand to her temple. “Tell me.”

“Well, most of the saltrice is gone, and with harvest season over there’s not much chance of replacing it. They apparently took countless mercantile wares too. To say the merchants are unhappy with us would be putting it too lightly.”

“Oh, Gods… what about the vaults?”

“They didn’t get into the vaults.”

“How long can we afford to pay the Shouts for?”

“I’d have to ask the treasurer.”

“Where is she right now?”

“Still away; she apparently suffered grievous psychological injury during the attack.”

“You told me she locked herself in the vaults and hid for the duration of it.”

“Yes, and she’s now claiming grievous psychological injury.”

Almalexia groaned and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. Her head always ached after she cried; it was throbbing like a drum now. “Fine. Send someone to find her and tell her I’ll consider her for the position of a new steward if she returns. That should catch her attention. In the meantime…”

“In the meantime?”

“Well, she’s not here to tell me what tax laws I can and can’t pass. Put out the decree that from this day forwards until the end of winter there will be no taxes on the sales of food, and that we’ll exchange Dwemeri wares for any food brought to us.”

“... Is that wise, my queen?”

“I don’t know if it’s wise. I know that people need to eat.”

Valyn didn’t reply. That meant, she knew now, he was disappointed in her. Almalexia stood and walked to the window, pressing her aching head against the cold glass. Smoke was still rising from the city beyond, each strand representing a corpse. Each strand a once living, breathing, thinking person that no longer existed because of her folly. She closed her eyes, trying to force back the tears-- it would do no good to cry in front of one of the few confidantes she had left.

“What are you going to do?” Valyn asked quietly.

Like all the other things she’d set out to do, she failed at keeping face too, and she felt her cheeks grow wet. “I don’t know.” Almalexia replied. “I don’t know."

 

* * *

 

_Finally the simulacrum of the netchiman's wife became unstable. The Dwemer in their haste had built it shoddily and the ashes of Red Mountain slowed its golden tendons. Before long it fell on its knees beside the road to the lands of the Indoril and pitched over...._

 

* * *

 

 

‘Dai! Dai!’ The sharp yip of a caravan-drivers voice was, in all of Veloth, the only sound that could rise loud and clear over the muted dull of a world in an ash-storm. That sharp high yelp could always pierce the falling soot before any other sound from the caravan made it through. ‘Dai! Adai!’ rang the announcement that goods were being carried along the road, and inevitably appeared the complaining guars which those cries spurned along, with the creaks of an overloaded cart, and the trudging bootfalls of the mercenaries that flanked the precious cargo.

This caravan had only two carts, four guars, and two guardians, but these modest provisions were more a testament to the merchant captain’s stinginess than to his poverty. For he was a greedy man who saw no reason to pay four salaries when two could be made to suffice, or eight guar where four could be forced to pull the load of eight. He was of the opinion that coin should be kept close to the self and safe out of harms way, to be squandered only in the brothels of Ebonheart and the ale-houses of Mournhold. In fact, he would not have made the trip east to Mournhold at all had he not been beckoned by the promise of a market easy to extort. To a greedy man, the idea of war-survivors who would begrudge high prices for his stock of cured nix-meat was as tempting as the thought of the virgin girls whom desperation would drive to sell their bodies. Greed and lust turn many wheels in the lands of Veloth; such it was that the merchant captain had overloaded his carts, harnessed his overworked guars, and brought on his favorite mercenaries for the fortuitous trip.

The ash-storm was a bad omen, one of the mercenaries-- a seer-- had claimed when it hit, but the merchant captain’s judgement was clouded by the thought of Mephala’s daughters and he disregarded the warning. The guars protested too, whining and braying, chomping at the air in impotent distress, but when the seer again complained that the ash was getting in the beasts’ eyes he was ignored. So, casting a miserable glance at his companion, he resigned himself to the task of shouting and slapping guar, and the caravan trundled on.

“Adai! Adai! Move, stupid beasts!”

As the seer shouted and slapped the miserable guars, his companion, a warrior, came to a stop. His foot had hit something soft by the side of the road. He paused, squinting through the falling ash, and prodded the shape with the end of his spear.

A body, he realized. He’d trodden on a corpse.

Such a sight, though sad, wasn’t uncommon on the road, so the warrior saw no reason to stop. He stepped over it carefully, and was about to go on his way when the faintest of noises caught his ear. So quiet that he couldn’t even discern what it was he’d heard, he nonetheless stopped and turned back to the body, prodding it with his spear again as if in disbelief that it had made a sound at all.

To his amazement, it moved and croaked a most unusual word.

“Why have you stopped?” shouted the merchant captain from ahead.

“There’s someone injured here.” the warrior replied.

“I don’t care.” the merchant captain said. “Leave it and let’s move on.”

“No, wait. I think it’s a dwarf.”

The caravan came to a halt; the warrior gently lifted the body from the dirt and into his arms. It was no larger than perhaps an adolescent woman, but the storm had caked it so thickly in ash that any real features were impossible to discern. When he walked back to the caravan and placed it on the back of the cart, however, it stirred feebly and groaned. “Mzual…” it muttered. “Arkng du ahvardn…”

“A Dwemer?” the merchant captain asked, as the mercenary brought it to the cart. “Truly? How do you know?”

“It’s speaking Dwemeris. Sul, bring water.”

The seer, Sul, brought a waterskin to the warrior and he used his hands to scrub ash from the Dwemer’s face. Then he paused, evidently surprised.

“What is it?”

“... Look,” said the warrior, moving aside. ‘It looks exactly like a Chimer!”

“A Chimer that speaks Dwemeris?” Sul asked, disbelieving.

“Or a Dwemer that’s been made to look like a Chimer.” replied the warrior. 

“How odd! Is it a new strategy of theirs?”

“I don't know.” The warrior turned to the merchant captain. “Sedura, we should take this to Mother Ayem. She’s been fighting the Dwemer and will want to see their new strategy.”

The merchant captain shook his head. “I hear that Mournhold’s coffers are running on empty. I doubt she could pay us well. We’ll make more money if we take it north to Noormoc. Hanin’s folk pay well for wonders made by the dwarves.”

“Mzual,” mumbled the not-Chimer. “Mzual.”

Sul climbed onto the cart beside it and took over from his companion, trickling water past its lips and washing away the ash caked on its face. Its features seemed neither male nor female, a fact which disquieted religious Sul. “There is something of prophecy here.” he announced, “And did you not hire me to lead you to good fortunes? I say listen to your warrior; we should bring this thing to Ayem.”

This gave the merchant captain pause; he was a religious man, because in the religion of the Velothi it was possible for a greedy man to also be devout. But it was well known that in Noormoc the Red Wives of Dagon sold their bodies, and that the pleasures of the House of Troubles were said to be more profane and wondrous than anything the daughters of Mephala could offer. So he disregarded Sul’s counsel and said instead, “Set course for Noormoc.”

Sul hopped off the cart and made for the guars, but suddenly the warrior flung a sack of coins at the merchant captain. “Then I’ll purchase it with this and a warning,” he spat, “War is coming with the Nords and I won’t have Mother Ayem at odds with one enemy while facing another!”

“Nerevar,” replied the captain, “It is not enough. I’m loyal to our people but I follow the path of my body and demand more!”

Nerevar, torn, looked at the youth. Ze had awoken at last and was staring at him, watching them decide hir fate with an emotionless half-lidded gaze, and something in that haunted stare made him inexplicably recall a tale he'd heard, many years ago in Mournhold, about an infant birthed to a king in the ash. 

 

* * *

 

 

_Vivec could not remain silent anymore and said into Nerevar's head these words:_

_'You can hear the words, so run away_

_Come Hortator, unfold into a clear unknown,_

_Stay quiet until you've slept in the yesterday,_

_And say no elegies for the melting stone.'_

 

So Nerevar slew the merchant captain and took the caravan for his own.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nchardch = Earth Bone
> 
> Oh jeez, has it really been ten months? Oops. Sorry. Time flies.   
> Thanks to tumblr users @mistressdratha and @sothasil for proofreading. Happy birthday, Vivi!


End file.
